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Book__l_- 

Cop)Tigllt^'' 



COFYKUnrr DEPOSIT. 



BOOK OF SELECTIONS FOR 

HOME AND SCHOOL 

Entertainments 



CONTAINING 



CHOICE RECITATIONS AND READINGS 
FROM THE BEST AUTHORS 



INCLUDING 



RECITALS IN PROSE AND TERSE, WITH MUSICAI 

ACCOMPANIMENTS ; BALLADS, DIALOGUES, 

ETC., ETC. 

Written and Edited by 
OKORGK ISA, VICKKRS 

With Annotations ; Hints upon Gesture and Dramatic Poses by 

FRANCES E. PIERCE 

Principal of Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Language, 

Philadelphia 



Embellished with a large number of Superb Photograph 
Engravings and Line Drawings 



NATIONAL PUBLISHING CO, 
N0,241 American STREET: 

PHILADELPHIA., PA. ' 






ENTERED AOCORDINQ TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1011, BY 

GEO. W. BERTRON 

THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, AT WASHINGTON, 0. C. O. 8. 



©CI.A2837G0 



INTRODUCTION. 



IN preparing this work for the pubUc it has been our aim to choose 
the very best, and every selection has been made with a special 
view to elocutionary merits. The Speakers' Ideal is composed 
of carefully selected pieces from the writings of well known 
authors, and as a source of supply to the giver of dramatic enter- 
tainments, from which they may obtain at once a suitable subject 
for declamation, recital, dialogue and drama, this volume is without 
a peer. 

The work contains many new pieces not found in any other 
book, and we have been able to secure a number of selections in 
the original manuscript, which are here published for the first time. 
Most of the recitations are accompanied by Annotations for Gesture, 
by which the amateur, as well as the elocutionist, may be guided 
in the necessary action, and by a method so extremely simple that 
the novice who has never had the privilege of instructions in the 
art of elocution will be enabled to give that indispensable accom- 
paniment, without which, there can be neither natural, oratorical, 
nor dramatical delivery. This important feature has been carefully 
prepared by one who stands at the head of the profession as an 
Instructor of elocution, and is found in no other " Speaker." 

Another Of the chief characteristics of this work is the large 
number of full-page and exquisitely engraved half-toned plates, 
which have been taken from life and produced at large expense 
expressly for this book. The Speakers' Ideal contains every 
characteristic of a complete book of elocution, and is, strictly speak- 
ing, the only " Speaker " ever published. 

The unprecedented success that has attended the sale of the 
first editions, is proof that our hope to supply a long-felt v^'ant has 
been fully realized, and it is with entire confidence in its merits that 
we present this work to the oublic. 

THE PUBLISHERS. 
3 



HINTS TO AMATEUR ELOCUTIONISTS. 



Effect of Personal Appearance upon the Audience. 

AS the Speaker or Reader steps upon the stage the audi- 
ence will, almost unconsciously, form a verdict upon 
his capabilities ; hence it is highly important that walk, 
manner, and general carriage should be carefully observed and 
acted upon. Dignity and grace should characterize the walk 
as the performer approaches the front. The limbs move from 
the hip joints and, while being flexible and elastic, should not 
have a looseness or shambling action. At rest, one foot 
should be slightly in advance of the other, the weight of the 
body being equally supported by both feet. This position is 
appropriate to all sentiments of an unemotional character, as 
well in conversation as in public address. When the earnest- 
ness or intensity increases, one foot is further advanced, and 
the weight of the body is thrown upon the advanced limb. On 
the other hand, haughtiness, pride, arrogance, and defence 
require the weight of ihe body on the retired limb. 

Gestures with the iiands and arms should be graceful and 
appropriate to the sentiment, and the face should be taught to 
mirror every thought. 

Mem *zing. 

It is always best to mem . e selections for public recita- 
tion, but when from want of time or other reasons, this is 
impossible, the book should be on a reading-stand of conven- 
ient height, or it may be held in the left hand, with the thumb 
4 



HINTS TO AMA TEUR ELOCUTIONISTS 5 

and little finger holding it open. The book should never be 
held between the face of the reader and the audience, but suf- 
ficiently to one side to give a graceful appearance to the arm in 
holding it, and at the same time, high enough to permit the 
eye to glance at the words without effort. The audience 
should be addressed as much as possible, and a reader may, 
by practice, learn to grasp the idea in a sentence at a glance 
and give it out to his hearers as though it were his own ; and, 
just here let me say, that when you attempt to recite a selec- 
tion, it is your duty to endeavor to express in the author's 
words just the meaning he wished to convey. It is a heinous 
sin to commit intellectual murder, or in other words, to overdo 
or underdo an author's meaning. 

Analysis. 

In preparing a piece for recitation, the meaning should first 
be analyzed. Decide whether it is descriptive, sentimental or 
dramatic, for upon its classification will depend its preparation. 
If descriptive, lay out the entire scene in your mind, just as 
though you were making a sketch for a painting ; decide in 
this way the location of every object mentioned, and do not 
change them during the course of the recitation. If sentimen- 
tal, decide what form of voice is best suited to express 
the thought, which ideas are the most prominent and are 
entitled to the primary emphasis ; which to the secondary, and 
in short, endeavor to thoroughly understand the sentiment. 
Dramatic recitations require the highest degree of talent, and 
should not be attempted without the assistance of a teacher. 

Personation. 

Personation may be divided into two classes — humorous 
and dramatic. A person who has good powers of mimicry 



6 HINTS TO AM A TEUR ELOCUTIONISTS 

may be quite successful in the former, but in the latter, good 
judgment and keen insight into character are absolutely 
requisite. The peculiarities of each individual must be brought 
out clearly, and not only must the voice and manner be suited 
to each, but the positions of the principle characters be 
strongly contrasted and distinguished. 

Voice. 

The voice in all unemotional recitation should be pure 
and produced by deep breathing. In grandeur, sublimity, or 
reverence it should be round and full, with a depth of reso- 
nance. 

Dread, horror, and remorse require pectoral tones, while 
the gutteral is exhibitive of anger, rage, ill-humor, and dis- 
like. The aspirate voice indicates weakness, fear, caution and 
extreme terror. The falsetto is found in shrieks, screams, 
affectation, and in the imitation of high female voices, and the 
nasal in sarcasm, irony, and mockery. For the adaptation of 
the different forms of voice, it is abolutely necessary to acquj re 
a thorough understanding of the sentiment of the piece. 

Modulation. 

Modulation may be called the soul of speech, or its life. 
Words are but the forms of clay into which we place the 
breath of life by modulation, and this may be accomplished by 
the varieties of pitch, force, rate, and pause. The medium 
degrees of these are used in unemotional language, whilst gay- 
ety, joy, shouting, command, and shrieks require full force, 
high pitch, and rapid rate, with short pauses ; reverence, solem- 
nity, awe, and melancholy being expressed in low pitch, sub- 
dued force, slow rate, and long pauses. 



HINTS TO AMATEUR ELOCUTIONISTS 7 

Articulation. 

Top much cannot be said upon the necessities of clear and 
distinct utterance. It is not only more pleasant to our hearers, 
but it is a positive economy to the voice. A person with a 
comparatively weak voice, and who articulates clearly, will be 
heard and understood in a much larger space than one with a 
more powerful voice, but a blurred or indistinct utterance. In 
studying a recitation, it is an excellent plan to go carefully 
through all the words, ascertaining the pronunciation, where 
uncertain, and then enunciating every sound in every syllable. 
A thorough knowledge of the elementary sounds of the lan- 
guage is also requisite. 

Choice of Pieces for Certain Occasions. 

As much of the success of a reader depends upon his 
good taste in selecting pieces as upon the rendering, and many 
a really good reciter has failed from this very cause. For 
church entertainments, particularly if held in the church, broad 
humor is not advisable, neither is it in good taste to give any- 
thing which may reflect upon the peculiar views of the denom- 
ination. In cases of uncertainty, it is well to consult the com- 
mittee, and if they sanction, all responsibility will be removed 
from the performer. 

Lodges are generally the best pleased with selections 
which have some bearing upon their particular Order, and it is 
well for the reader who has much of this line of work to be 
constantly on the outlook for such pieces, or even to pay an 
author to write them for him. 

For parlor entertainments, simple narratives or stories are 
the most suitable, high tragedy and declamation being decid- 
edly inappropriate, because of the nearness of the audience. 



8 GESTURE 

Gesture. 

As a tree without leaves, so is recitation without gesture. 
By appropriate, graceful action, ideas are intensified, emphasized, 
descriptions are brought before the mind's eye, and what we say 
becomes a perfect whole. Gesture cannot be acquired without 
practice upon its rudiments and, therefore, if possible, instruc- 
tions should be received from some competent teacher. Much 
of the beauty and power of gesture depends upon its appro- 
priateness to the sentiment expressed, and it is far better to 
make a few significant gestures than to make a large number 
which arc meaningless or poorly chosen. A thorough and 
systematic drill upon the mechanical formation and elements 
of action is indispensible to the reader or speaker, and until 
this has been taken no one should depend upon the inspira- 
tion of the moment. 

Bacon divides gestures into three parts : i. e., the prepar- 
atory, executionary, and return movements. He fails, how- 
ever, to explain that there are two forms of preparation ; the 
curved and the straight. In the former, the hand and arm are 
carried across the body to the opposite shoulder and thence 
through a curved line to the ictus or executionary point. 
Conversation, description, and grand or noble ideas require 
this preparation. Straight preparation, on the contrary, 
requires the hand and arm to be raised perpendicularly on the 
oblique to different degress of height, according to the senti- 
ment, and then thrown through a straight line to the point 
required. Emphasis, directness, forward motion, and intensity 
are thus expressed. In the return movement, the hand is 
dropped easily and gracefully to the side. 

Where several gestures follow one another, connected in 



GESTURE 



meaning, the return movement is frequently omitted, and the 
hand passes by transition into the preparation for the next 
gesture. 

The face should reflect promptly all sentiments expressed, 
and the eye, more than any other part of the body, imparts an 
intelligence to speech. The reciter should always endeavor to 
imagine whatever scene he is depicting, and, in seeing it him- 
self, he causes his auditors to see it also. In all descriptive 
gestures, or for anything you are supposed to witness, the eye 
follows the hand ; but in sentimental or emphatic gestures, the 
eye is upon those addressed. 

Positions of the Feet. 




FIGURE I. FIGURE 2. 

In the Passive position one foot is slightly in advance 
of the other, as represented in Figure i, the weight of the 
body being equally supported by both feet. This position 
should be used in conversational or unemotional ideas and in 
public address. 

Example. — " Yes, I have served that noble chief through- 
out his proud career." {The Spanish Mother, p. jp.) 



lO 



GESTURE 



The Advanced position requires one foot to be thrown 
forward, as shown in Figure 2, and the weight of the body to 
be supported by the advanced foot, the retired foot merely sus- 
taining the body in an upright position, and sometimes resting 
upon the toe alone. Agressiveness, command, and earnestness 
are thus expressed. 

Example. — *' Sign that parchment ! Sign, if the next 
moment the gibbet's rope is about your neck." 

The Retired position 
as illustrated in Figuer 3, 
takes the same relative 
position of the feet, 
but the weight of the body 
is sustained by the retired 
foot. Arrogance, haughti- 
ness, defence, resistance, 
horror, and dislike require 
this position. 
FIGURE 3. 
Example. — *' Oh, such a sight of ruin ! oh, such a ghastly 
scene." {Roderick Lee, p. jd.) 

Hands. 






figure 5. 

FIGURE 4. 

The Supine hand requires the hand to be well opened, 
palm upward, the fore-finger being straight and the remaining 



GESTURE 



II 



fingers slightly relaxed, but not bent. Figure 4 represents 
this position. It should be used in assertion, description, com- 
mand, commendation, and in emphasizing a statement or argu- 
ment. 

Example. — ** We know that we are more fortunate than 
our fathers." 

The Prone hand, in which the palm is downward, 
as in Figure 5, signifies the resting of one body, fact or prin- 
ciple upon another ; it is also used to express destruction either 
morally or physically. While the Supine hand permits or allows, 
the Prone hand restrains or prohibits. With the curved lines 
of preparation, it is used in blessing and benediction. 

Example. — ''The flames flung a smile o'er her features." 
[The Old Actor's Story, p. 2j2.) 

The Vertical hand in which the 
palm is outward, as in Figure 6, wards 
off and expresses aversion, disgust, 
depreciation or darkness. When 
raised from the elbow it expresses 
wonder or amazement. 

Example. — '' Now the night 
grows blacker, more dismal than be- 
{Tke Felon's Wife, p. 128.) 




FIGURE 6. 



fore." 




The Index Finger, supine 
in which the back of the hand 
is sidewise, as Figure 7 indi- 
cates, points out a particlar figure 7 
spot or individual. It also expresses strong emphasis or 
affirmation and is sometimes employed in cautioning. 



12 



GESTURE 



Example. — ** That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known 
as Sir Rupert's Head." {Sir Rupert's Wife, p. 22.) 





FIGURE 8 FIGURE 9. 

The Index Finger, prone, with hand downward, as indi- 
cated in Figure 8, is used in scorn, contempt, derision, or 
reproach. 

Epample. — '' And lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow 
eye." (Mary, Queen of Scots, p, ^6.) 

The Clinched Hand is formed by closing the fingers 
tightly and doubling the thumb over them as in Figure 9. It 
expresses defiance, hatred and the extreme of emphasis. As this 
is the strongest gesture possible to make, it should be reserved 
for the climax of the sentiment. For strong emphasis it 
should take a descending line. Example. — '' And hate in- 
tense begat intenser love." 




FIGURE 10 



The Hands are Clasped, as 
in Figure 10, in strong emo- 
tion, distress, entreaty, prayer, 
supplication, and extreme gladness. 



FIGURE II. 



GESTURE 



13 



Example. — '' Come, for God's sake, or he will die." 
" Oh, save me, save me, holy man ! " 
{Ruth Bonython's Confession, p. 25 .) 

The Hands are Applied, as \\\ Figure 1 1, by pressing the 
palms together, the fingers and thumb being straight. This 
position is used in adoration and sometimes in prayer. 

Example.—" And glistens in the Eternal's praise-" (The 
Stars, p. 14.J.) " Now I lay me down to sleep." {Dying to 
Win, p. II.) 

Notations of Gesture, 



A simple method of ma. -.ing gesture, and the one we 
employ in this book, consists in using the initials of the words 
expressing the direction or position, as follows ; 



D. P., Descending Front. 
D. O., Descending Oblique. 
D. L., Descending Lateral. 
D. B., Descending Backward. 
H. F., Horizontal Front. 
H. O., Horizontal Oblique. 
H. L., Horizontal Lateral. 
H. B., Horizontal Backward. 
A. F., Ascending Front. 
A. O., Ascending Oblique. 
A. L., Ascending Lateral. 

A. B., Ascending Backward. 

B. placed before the letters in- 
dicates that both hands are 
to be used. 



The Supine position of hand 
is to be used when there is 
no designation to the con- 
trary. 

P., Prone hand. 

v., Vertical hand. 

Ind., Index finger supine. 

Ind. P., Index finger prone. 

CL, Clinched hand. 

Cla., Clasped hands. 

Imp., Impulse, or repetition 
of the same gesture. 

L. before the letters, Left 
hand. 

Ap,, Hands Applied. 



14 GESTURE 

Sp., Special. Con., Conversational, or move- 

Sw., Sweep from the opposite ment from the elbow. 

shoulder outward. Par., Parallel, or both hands 

Sust., Sustained gesture. in one direction to the right 

Lis., Hand raised to listen. or left. 

Hand and Arm. 

Gestures of the arm are divided into Elbow or 
Fore-arm and Shoulder or Full-arm. In the former the motion 
proceeds from the elbow, the upper arm being moved little or 
not at all. Conversational or unimportant ideas employ this 
movement. In the Shoulder movements the entire arm is 
employed, the shoulder being the pivot for the action ; but the 
elbow joint plays an important part in conducing to the grace 
and force of the movement. The latter are appropriate to 
description, grandeur, reverence, forward motion, and intense 
or emphatic statements. 

The directions into which the hand and arm may be 
thrown are as follows : Descending, or toward any point which 
will bring the hand below the armpit ; Horizontal, or on a level 
with the armpit, and Ascending, which will cover any line 
above the shoulder. 

These directions, as will be observed by referring to the 
Notation of Gesture, are designated respectively by the letters 
D. H. and A. 

When we make a descending, horizontal or ascending 
gesture, the hand and arm is at the same time thrown to the 
Front, to the Oblique, to the Lateral, or to the Backward, and 
these directions are thus expressed by their corresponding 
initials F., O., L., and B. Thus, if a Descending gesture takes 



GESTURE 



t5 



a line in front of the body, it is called Descending Front, and 
is expressed by the letters D. F. If the line diverges towards 
the side it becomes Descending Oblique, expressed by D. ^O. 
If directly at the side, it is called Descending Lateral, D. L., 
and if carried further back, it is called Descending Backward^ 
D. B. The same is true of the Horizontal and the Ascending. 
To enable the reciter to apply gestures that are suitable to 
various sentiments, some definitions to the various directions 
described and explanations of the accompanying cuts are here- 
with given. 

Descending ^Qstures per- 
tain to the sphere of the 
will and express determina- 
tion, emphasis and refer to 
objects beneath us. They 
are also used in ideas of a 
low or debasing character. 
See Figure 12, which is 
Descending Oblique. 

Example. — "They may 
turn every rock into a scaf- 
fold." 

Horizontal gestures be- 
long to the sphere of the 
intellect and are largely 
used in argument. They 
FIGURE 12. also designate things or in- 

dividuals on a level with us. Figure 1 3 represents a Horizontal 
Oblique gesture, which is chiefly used in general address. 




i6 



GESTURE 



Example. — '* And this is why, forsooth, they deem me 



so. 



Ascending ges- 
tures pertain to 
the sphere of the 
imagination and 
express exulta- 
tion, gla d n e s s 
and victory. Fig- 
ure 14 rep re- figure 13 
sents an Ascending Lateral position. 

Example. — ''And we are free, forever free." {The 
World's Hero, p. Sy.) 

Front gestures express unity, personality, direct address, 





figure 14. 



GESTURE 



^7 



and forward motion. They also refer to the fufure and to 
objects located in front of us. Figure 1 5 shows a front gesture 
on the descending line, which carries the strongest degree of 





FIGURE 16. 
emphasis. The definitions here given are 
mostly applicable to horizontal and ascending 
lines, but this can be decided by the judgment 
of the elocutionist. 
FIGURE 15. Example. — ''There was no land on earth 

she loved like that dear land." (Mary, Queen of Scots, p. 75.) 
Oblique gestures express pluralit>% impersonality, and are 
used largely in argument. (See Figure 12 for example.) 

Example. — '' We'll show King Ludwig when he comes 

what the boys in this school can do." (Little Christel,p. iji.) 

Lateral gestures express vastness in time, space, numbers 



i8 



GESTURE 



or idea ; also casting away and negation. . The lateral is rep- 
resented on a descending line in Figure i6. 

Example. — *' We think, we hope but we do not know." 



B ackward 
gestures ex- 
press remote- 
ness in time 
or space and 
refer to the 
past or to ob- 
jects lying be- 
hind us. Fig- 
ure 17 shows 
the backward 
direction of a 
desc ending 
gesture. 




FIGURE 17. 



Example. — "Only a century distant it was 'nt as good as 
now." {Sir Ruperfs Wife, p. 2y^ ''Oh God! that horrid, 
horrid dream." 

Whdre breadth or expanse are expressed both hands 
should be used. 



GESTURE 19 

The Arms Parallel, Figure 18, are frequently used to 




FIGURE 18. 

express greater intensity than is possible with one hand, and 
sometimes in impassioned reference. 

Example. — '' Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped 
for one enhance of life." {Old Actor's Story, p. 2jj.) 





DECLARATION. 



SECRECY. 



20 



GESTURE 




DESIGNATION. 



JOY. 



DEFIANCE. 






SURPRISE. 



INDIGNATION. 



VENGEANCE. 



GESTURE 





EXPECTATION. 



ANTICIPATION. 





GREETING. 



INVITATION. 



22 



GESTURE 




RESIGNED APPEAL. 



HORROR. 



MADNESS. 




REPULSION. 



BASH FULNESS. 



MISCHIEF. 



GESTURE 



23 





COQUETRY. 



MIRTH. 



RETROSPECTION. 




INDECISION. 



BENEDICTION. 



TRIUMPH. 



24 



GESTURE 





RIDICULE. 



ENTREATY. 





DEPRECATION. 



COMMAND. 



Ruth Bonython's Confession. 

A selection adapted from " Mogg Megone." 

— jfohn Greenleaf Whitteir. 

[The First Graduating Medal was won upon this at the Commencement of the Mt. 
Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages.] 



*' O father,^ bear with me ; my heart- 
Is sick and death-like, and my braiir^ 
Seems girdled with a fiery chain, 
Whose scorching links will never part, 

And never cool again. 
For half I fancy I can see 
My mother's sainted look in thee.* 
Ah, woe for me ? my mother died 
Just at the moment when I stood 
Close on the verge of womanhood, 
And when my wild heart^ needed most 
Her gentle counsels, they were lost.'^ 
My father lived a stormy life, 
Of frequent change and daily strife ; 
And, — God forgive him !^ left his child 
To feel like him a freedom^ wild ; 
To love the red man's dwelling-place,^^ 
The birch boat^^ on his shaded floods, 
The wild excitement of the chase^^ far more 
Than that restaining awe^^ I felt 
Beneath my gentle mother's care. 

Gestures, i B. H. F. to Left. 2 R. to Heart. 3 B. to 
Head. 4 L. H. O. 5 Sp. (see illustration). 6 H. F. 7 H. j- 
8 Raise Eyes. 9 B. H. O. 10 H. O. 11 D. L. 12 L. H. O. 
13 P. H. O. 

2f 



26 RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION 

Then came a change. The wild, glad mood 

Of unchecked freedom passed/* 

A softened voice^^ was in my ear, 

A manly form^® was ever nigh, 

A bold, free hunter, with an eye 

Whose dark, keen glance had power to wakd 

Both fear^'' and love. 

'Twas as the wizard rattlesnake,^^ 

Whose evil glances lure^^ to harm — 

Whose brilliant coil, and changing dye 

Draw, step by step,^*^ the gazer nigh, 

A conscious, but a willing prey. 

Faded^^ the world which I had known, 

A poor, vain shadow, cold and waste ; 
In the warm, present^^ bliss alone 

Seemed I of actual life to taste. 
Seen in the glance^^ which met my own, 
Heard^* in the soft and pleading tone, 
Felt in the arms around^^ me cast. 
Warm heart pulses beating fast. 
Ah ! scarcely yet to God^^ above 
Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent. 
Than I, before a human^'^ shrine. 
As mortal and as frail as mine, 
With heart, and soul, and mind, and forn\^ 
Knelt^ madly to a fellaw worm. 
Full soon, upon that dream of sin, 

14 H. Sw. 15 Lis. 16 H. O. 17 to Breast. 18 Ind. D. O. 
19 P. D. Sw. 20 P. Sp. 21 P. H. L. 22 H. F. 23 H. O. 24 Lis. 
25 B. Sp. 26 A. F. 27 H. F. 28 D. F. 



RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION 27 

An awful lighP came bursting in. 
The shrine was cold at which I knelt f'^ 
The idol of that shrine was gone f^ 

A humbled^^ thing of shame and gilt, 
Outcast and spurned and lone, 
Wrapt^ in the shadows of my crime, 
I passed a fearful time. 
There came a voice^ — it checked^ a tear — 
My father's voice was in my ear ; 
It whispered of revenge f^ 
Then tiger passions, which had slept,^ 
In childhood's better day. 
Unknown, unfelt, arose^ at length 
In all their own demoniac strength. 

A youthful warrior of the wilds, 

By words deceived, by smiles beguiled,^^ 

Upon our fatal errands went. 

Through camp and town and wilderness^ 

He tracked his victim ; and, at last. 

Just when the tide of hate had passed, 

And milder thoughts came warm and fast. 

Exulting, at my feet*^ he cast 

The bloody token of success. 

God ! with what an awful power 

1 saw the buried past uprise,^ 

29 P. H. F. 30 D. F. 31 H. L. 32 Kneel. 33 B. Sp. 
34 Clasp and let fall. 35 P. H. O. 36 B. Cli. D. 37 P. H. O. 
38 Rise and raise B. P. 39 P. H. Sw. 40 P. H. Sw. 41 D. F. 
42 Raise P. 



28 RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION 

And then I felt — alas ! too late*^ — 

That underneath the mask of hate 

The heart's^ wild love had known no change » 

There*^ lay the fearful scalp, and there*® 

The blood was on its pale brown hair ! 

I thought not of the victim's scorn, 

My deadly wrong, my outcast name, 

I only saw that victim's smile,*^ — 

The still, green places*^ where me met, — 

The smile, — the embrace, — the tone, which made 

An Eden*^ of the forest shade. 

And, oh, with what a loathing^^ eye, 
I saw that Indian murderer^^ lie 
Before me, in his drunken sleep ; 
What^^ though for me the deed was done, 
And words of mine had sped^^ him on ! 
Yet when he murmured as he slept. 

The horrors of that deed of blood. 
The tide of utter madness swept 

O'er brain and bosom^* like a flood. 
And, father, with this hand"*^ of mine 
I smote^® him as I would a worm." 

" Woman^^ of sin and blood and shame, 
Speak, — I would know that victim's name." 



43 Shake Head. 44 to Heart. 45 Ind. D. F. 46 Imp. 
47 D. F. 48 H. Sw. 49 B. H. O. so V. D. O. 51 D. O. 52 B. 
H. O. 53 H. Sw. 54 B. on Breast. 55 Cli. Sp. 56 Cli Sp. 57 
to R. 



RUTH BONYTHON'S CONFESSION 29 

" Father, ^^ a chieftain known 
As Saco's Sachem, — Mogg Megone ! " 



« Off,^^ woman of sin ! nay touch not me 

With those^° fingers of blood ; — begone ! "®^ 
" Oh, save me,^^ save me, holy man ! " 

" Wretched girl ! one eye^^ alone 
Notes the way that thou hast gone. 
Still though earth and man*^^ discard thee, 
Doth thy Heavenly Father^^ guard thee. 
He whose mercy ever liveth, 
Who repenting guilt forgiveth,^^ 
Wanderer of the wilderness, 

Haunted, guilty, crazed and wild, 
He regardeth thy^'' distress, 

And careth for His sinful child." 



" Blessed Mary ! who is she^^ 
Leaning against that maple tree ? 
The sun upon her face burns hot. 
But the fixed eyelid moveth not ; 
God save her ! will she sleep alway ? 
Wake,^^ daughter, — wake ! " — 'but she stirs no limb ; 
The eye that looks on him is dim ; 
And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper, 

58 to Left. 59 V. H. O. 60 Ind. H. O. 61 V. H. O. 62 B. H. 
F. to Left. 63 Ind. A. 64 H. Sw. 65 A. O. 66 P. H. O. (i-j 
H. O. 68 H. O. 69 Sp. 



3(3 CIVILIZATION 

Until the angel' s^^ oath is said, 
The final blast of the trump goes forth'^^ 
To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth. 

Ruth Bonython is dead.^^ 

70 A. O. 71 H. Sw. 72 P. D. O. 



Civilization. 

As Discovered by Professor Peekwell, Samuel Searcher 
AND Philip Deadlight. 

Professor. — Civilization is the science of discontent. 

Searcher. — How do you make that out ? 

Professor.— Gentlemen, allow me to explain. In the first' 
place, all that man requires on this terrestial ball can be ex- 
pressed in three words, namely : food, shelter and raiment. 

Seacher. — How about a wife ? 

Deadlight. — And segars ? 

Professor. — I use the term man as indicating the human 
race. 

Searcher. — Well, go on. 

Deadlight. — I'm ashamed of you, Professor ; would you 
have us go back to savage life ? 

Professor. — Yes, but only in fancy, for the purpose of illus- 
tration. Let us drop down on a remote island in the India© 



CJMr.I/.ATlOh'. 

Ocean, It is night-fall. The last rosy tints of sunset are fad- 
ing from the western sky. The murmur of the distant surf 
mingles with the soft lullaby of the Indian mother who soothes 
her babe to sleep. 

Searcher. — Why didn't the goose use soothing syrup ? 
Deadlight. — Or a cradle ? 

Professor. — Beneath a tall palm, circled about the embers 
of a dying fire, sit the tawny natives. They are listening to 
the words that fall from the lips of an aged chief With rap- 
ture they hang upon the oft-told legend of the isle. In their 
hearts they wonder at the old man's wisdom. As he dilates 
upon their by-gone deeds, and their present might, their eyes 
involuntarily wander toward the rich foliage that gently sways 
on yonder high hill top ; now they glance at the bright stars 
that peep forth from the upper blue, and now at the dim ocean 
that stretches away on either hand like a desert waste. Con- 
tentment almost perfect sits on every brow. Each savage has 
his spear, his hut of twigs : thus the Great Creator hath set 
them to fulfill their mission ; and yet the spear and hut are 
the initial steps in the march of civilization ; only luxury 
lies beyond them; comparative luxury is the acme of 
civilization. 

Searcher. — You're a crank ! 

Deadlight. — No, he's a philosopher. Think of the bless- 
ings of savage life ! No creditors to ring your door bell, and 
make you leap out of your chair with consternation. 

Searcher. — That is a point. 

Deadlight. — Then there's no fashion to ruin a man every 
time the seasons change. Look at that bonnet yonder! I'll 
wager it cost thirty dollars. 

Searcher. — And that dude's coat, to say nothing of his 
monstrous collar. 

Professor. — Hold on 



32 



GE TTIXG A-/-:. ID K 



Deadlight. — And there's no bank cashier to skip away 
with your limited balance. 

Professor. — Hold on, I say. Civilization is good ; it ele- 
vates mankind ; but the higher our civilization the greater our 
wants ; therefore civilization is the science of discontent. 

Searcher. — Humph 1 

Deadlight. -Ahem! 

Professor. We will now adjourn, 

Geo, M, Vickers. 



Getting Ready. 

Characters. 

Nicholas Neverslip, a modern husband, 

Patrick Dolan, an Irish lad, 

Matilda, Neverslifs wife. 

Miss Spyall, a gossip. 

Biddy Crogan, a domestic. 

Scene: — A drawing room. Time, evening. Table and twd 
chairs, C. Nicholas discovered standing near L. E. with cane 
and gloves in his hands : he calls to his wife, who is supposed to 
be up stairs dressing for the opera. 

Nicholas. — My dear, it is half-past seven ; do hurry ; I am 
sure we will be late. 

Matilda. — I am coming — be with you in one minute. Has 
Biddy fastened the back gate ? 

Nicholas (aside). — I know we'll be late {calls), Biddy! 
(crosses to R. E) 

Biddy. — I'm here, sur. [Enter Biddy R. E!\ What do you 
want wid me, sur ? 

Nicholas. — Biddy, is the back gate fastened ? 

Biddy. — I'll see, sur, {turns to go) 

Nicholas. — Biddy ! 

Biddy. — Sur! 



r 




i$f^ 




¥ 




i 




WHAT ARE LITTLE GIRLS GOOD FOR?" 

WE HEARD A MAN ASK TO-DAY; 
«C WE HAVE COME HERE TO TELL YOU, 

«»CEASE LISTEN TO WHAT WE SAY. 

THE cn Tte -tCiPENS. 






i 



»'^0 



L 



_J 



NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SI.EEP 




EVER OF THEE I'M FONDLY lyREAMING 




COLONIAIv SCHOOLMASTER. 




LET ME TELL YOU : YOU WILL LAUGH. TOO, 




AN AMATEUR PKT? FORMER 



THE LITTLE HUSSAR 




SLOW DYING DAY, ALONG THE MOUNTAIN'S BROW, 
CASTS THE SOFT RADIANCE OF THE AFTERGLOW 



From The Al^ini: Cl'mber 




ks^ 



A SAIL! A SAIL! OR IS IT BUT A SHRED OF W-.,\DLfi:NG C^JJi 




IN DISGRACE. 




THK YOUNG NATURALIST 




YUM- VTTM 




SOL SMITH RUSSELL and MINNIE RADCLIFFE. 

"will YOU-ER-ACCEPT this slight TCKtN-!'» 
"l MIGHT FROM SOME MEN." 




I'M CAPTAIN OF THE FINEST CRAFT AFLOAT, 
COME, TAKE A RIDE IN MY PLEASURE BOAT. 




MR. SIDNEY EBY. 

"me received the sad intelligence of the death of His MOTHER-IN-LAW " 



GETTTiYG READY. j^ 

Nicholas. — Biddy, I am going to the opera ; that is, we are, 
Mrs. Neverslip and myself. 

Matilda (calls). — Nicholas ! 

Nicholas. — Well, what's the matter ? 

Matilda. — Where did you lay my fan ? 

Nicholas. — I never touched your fan. {looks at his watcK) 
ft is twenty minutes to eight ; I declare we will be late, 

Biddy (aside). — I wonder if he manes to keep me shtandin* 
here all night ? 

Nicholas \to Matilda). — I am going ! 

Matilda. — Here I come. 

Nicholas. —It is time you were coming. 

MATiLDA.-^Oh, dear! 

Nicholas. — What's the matter? 

Matilda. — Oh, youVe hurried me so that IVe gone and 
dressed without my fichu ; I can never go without it. 

Nicholas (aside). — Confound her fish-hook, (aloud) Snails 
and turtles! are you never coming? 

Biddy (aside). — I'm nather a gate post nur a clothes prop. 
(aloud) Mr. Neverslip, I'll be goin' to the kitchen ; I lift the 
banes on the sthove; I think they're burnin'. \Exit Biddy 

Nicholas. — For mercy sake do come. 

Matilda (singing). — I am coming, darling, eoming 

Nicholas. — How provokingly cool you are. 

{Enter Matilda L. £.] 

Matilda. — Now, my dear, we'll be off. {Bot/i start toward 
L. £.] Why, where's your hat ? 

^icno'LAS (feels his head). — Good giacious! It is upstairs 
'-Matilda, dear, will you get it for me ? 

Matilda. — You cruel man (knock heard from without^ 

Both. — Horrors! Some one at the door! 

Nicholas. — Biddy t 
3 



34 GETTING READY. 

Biddy. — ^Ay, sur ! [Enter Biddy R. E!] 

Nicholas. — Biddy, we're out. 

Biddy. — Yer what? 

Nicholas. — We're out; that is, we soon will be. We do 
not wish to see anyone — you comprehend ? 

Biddy {aitgrily). — Don't want to see anyone I comprehend ! 
Sur, I'm an honest Irish girl, and I niver comprehended any- 
body, {arms akimbo) Niver! 

[Prolonged knock at the door.'\ 

Nicholas. — Go to the door and say we're out ! 

Biddy {aside). — The man is surely out of his head. 

[Exit Biddy L, E^ 

Matilda. — Oh my ! we'll never get off. 

Nicholas. — My dear it's all your own fault. 

Matilda {^puts handkerchief to ^jj/^.y).— Dear, dear! Nicho- 
las. Hark ! 

Miss Spyall {from without). — Take this card to ■ 

Biddy {from without). — They're out, mum. 

Miss Spyall. — Then I'll just step in a moment and write a 
line or two. 

Biddy. — But they're out ! 

Matilda. — Oh grief! It is that awful Spyall; good-bye 
opera to-night. 

Nicholas. — We might as well give up now. 

[Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward followed by Miss 
Spyall^ 

Miss Spyall {aside), — Out of the street ; ah 1 I understand ! 
{Extends hands to Nicholas and Matilda) — {aloud) How delighted 
I am to see you ! What ! going out ? 

Biddy. — Yis, out; they're out — outward bound, I forgot 
part of the wurruds. 

Nicholas. — Silence, Bridget I 

Matilda. — We need you no longer, Biddy. 



GETTING READY, ^^ 

Biddy. — Indade, ye'll give me two wakes* notice. I'll not 
lave now. 

Matilda. — I mean we do not need you here. You may go 
to the kitchen. Oh, bother ! My hair is coming down. Biddy 
get me a hair-pin, quick ! [Exit Biddy R. E^ 

Miss Spyall. — What a beautiful dress ; is it all silk ? 

Nicholas. — Part muslin, Miss. 

Matilda. — Nicholas, you shock me. 

Nicholas {Pidls out watch and starts togd)» — Oh, oh, oh! 

Miss Spyall. — Going to church ? 

Nicholas. — No, not to church. 

Miss Spyall. — Oh, I see ; the museum. 

Nicholas. — We have an engagement. 

Miss Spyall. — A wedding ? That's it ! I know. Who is it ? 
Do tell me if it is Nancy Beadle ? I thought she and John 

Matilda. — My husband and I are about going down town 
on important business, it is time we were there now. 

Miss Spyall. — Anything important? You know I can be 
trusted. 

Nicholas. — Gone! gone! gone! 

Miss Spyall. — Hey ? 

Matilda. — Miss Spyall, you will please excuse me this 
evening, we must go at once. 

[Enter Biddy R. E. with clothes-pins in each hand^ 

Nicholas {pointing to watch). — We've lost our seats. {Ma^ 
tilda and Miss Spyall take seats) 

Biddy {to Nicholas). — Niver moind me ; still, I'll bring two 
chairs from the dining-room if ye insist. (To Matilda) 
Here's the puns, mum. 

Matilda. — Stupid girl, these are clothes-pins. 

Miss Spyall. — What a silly creature. 

Biddy {aside). — The spalpeen ! 

Nicholas. — Excuse me. I must get my hat, [Exit L. E!} 



36 



GETTING KEAD\. 



Matilda. — Oh, he's a darling man ! 

Miss Spyall. — Spe-len-did ! {A crash heard) 

Matilda. — What have you done ? 

Nicholas {groaits). — Broken my shins, smashed my hat and 
upset your toilet stand! 

Matilda. — You wretch — edly unfortunate man. 

Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with smashed hat in hand^ 

Miss Spyall, — I must be going. 

Matilda. — We are going to ^;he opera. 

Nicholas. — ^To hear the final chorus. 

Miss Spyall. — How delightful ! 

Matilda. — Biddy, keep a sharp look out. 

\_Exit all except Biddy L. .£".] 

Biddy. — Yis, I'll kape a sharp look out. I'll first take a 
look at the back gate. Poor Pat's been waitin' at that same 
gate for a whole hour ; faith he's stharved wid the cold {starts 
and listens) Arrah, what's that ? Sure some one's in the kitchen. 
I hear a brogan on the stairs — the saints protect me. \Enter 
Pat R. E., lookhig around cautiously^ Oh, Pat Dolan ! How 
dare ye frighten me loike that? How did ye enter the house? — 
What if the folks had been in ? 

Pat. — Whist, me darlin' ; I saw them lave by the front door, 
and in the wink of an eye, its meself that lepped over the fince ; 
I thried the back door, it was unlatched, and here I am, Biddy 
dear ! 

Biddy. — Niver do the loikes of that again. You might be 
shot lor a burglar or a dynamiter, 

Pat. (sitting at table). — Niver fear, Biddy dear ; go ye and 
bring a crust of bread and sup of — of something stronger than 
tay, if yer have it ; sure I've room here for a loaf, and I'm 
thrimblin' wid wakeness 

Biddy. — I'll see what's lift in the pantry. Be aisy till 1 
come back. {Starts to go) 



GETTING READY. • ^y 

Pat.— Biddy! 

Biddy. — What, darlint ? {Pauses) 

Pat. — Do ye hear anything ? 

Biddy. — Its the Niverslips ! Run for your life ! 

Pat. — Be aisy ; it's me poor heart beatin' ; and nothin' more. 
It always bates whin I see that face. 

Biddy {Looks over her shoulder). — What face ? I see no face ! 

Pat. — Don't be a greenhorn. I mane your own lovely 
countenance. 

Biddy. — Oh, ye blarney ! [Exit R. E^ 

Pat. {Rises from chair and walks up and down the stage). — 
Humph ! this is a very foine house. It lacks the comforts of 
a home, howiver, for there's not the sign of a pipe or a 'bacca 
bowl about the room. They're evidently mane people. 

[Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on which are loaf of bread, 
a knife, a black bottle and two glasses^ 

Look at that now ! If that isn't the tip of hospitality my 
name's not Patrick Dolan. 

Biddy {places tray on table). — Now, Pat, ye must not thrifle 
over the sup, {fills glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It 
would niver do to have the folks foind ye here. 

Pat {takes glass). — Here's to our wedding day, {drinks) Oh ! 
ah ! {jumps to his feet and runs about stage holding his throat) 
I'm pizened, I'm kilt. 

Biddy {following him about). — Shpeak, shpeak, me darlint Pat. 

Pat {gasping and pointing to bottle). — Look — look — look at 
that! What's in the bottle ? 

Biddy. — Sure I can't read. {Hands bottle to Pat) 

Pat. — Saint Patrick defind me ! (reads) " Pure Jamaica 
Ginger," Oh ! its atin me up ! {Noise heard without) 

Biddy. — Hark ! {Both listen) 

Nicholas {from without). — We should have taken an um- 
brella ; hurry in or we shall be drowned with the rain. 



38 GETTING READY. 

Pat (agitatecPj. — Put me away ! hide me ! cover me up ! 

Biddy. — Run ! No — shtop — ^they're here ! get under the 
table. 

Pat (crawls under table). — Bad luck to the rain ! 

Biddy. — Arrah ! What shall I do ? He's opening the door 
wid the noight key. Kape shtill, Pat. 

Nicholas. — Walk in Miss Spyall ; it is only a shower. 
\Enter Neverslip^ Matilda and Miss Spyall L. E. 

Miss Spyall {aside). — Refreshments, as I live! (Aloud) I feel 
real chilly! If I were home I'd have a bowl of hot tea, or some- 
thing warm. 

Biddy. — I was thinkin' mum, that ye might be cold. 

Matilda.— What's that, Biddy ? 

Biddy.- — I thought ye'd need a warrum drink and a bite, so 
I've the bottle and bread handy for yez. (Points to bottle) 

Nicholas (takes bottle). — Jamaica Ginger. 

Matilda. — The idea ! Bread and ginger. Why, Biddy, you 
are certainly becoming insane. 

Miss Spyall (aside). — I thought they were too mean to 
have cake and wine, I thought it was a pound cake. How- 
disappointed and hungry I feel. (Aloud) I wonder if it still 
rains ? 

Nicholas. — Be seated, ladies. Biddy, go to the door, and see 
if it has stopped raining. — (Matilda and Miss Spyall take seats 
at table). 

I will see if I can find an umbrella for Miss Spyall. \^Exit 

l,e:\ 

Pat. — (Pats head rises slowly from behind table). 
Miss Spyall. — Does Mr. Neverslip smoke much? 
Matilda. — Never at all. Why do you ask ? 
Miss Spyall. — I thought I detected a strong odor of an old 
pipe. 



GETTING READY. y^ 

Pat. — [aside) Ye spalpeen ! {Pulls her ear and stoops behind 
table). 

Miss Spyall Oh ! {indignantly), — Don't do that again. I 
dislike such familiarity. 

Matilda {astonished). — Why, what's the matter with 3^ou ? 

Miss Spyall. — I guess if I were to pull your ear you would 
know how it feels. There! {They turn their backs to each 
other angrily). 

{Pat peeps from under table and pulls Matilda's ear). 

Matilda {springing to her feet). — You impudent gossip \ 
How dare you ? {rubs her ear) If you want exercise, try pedes- 
trianism ; I will excuse your presence. {Points to door). 

Miss ^YYK\A.(rising and backing off). — I am shocked beyond 
expression, {aside) If I only get out — the woman's surely mad, 
\Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella'^ 

Matilda. — My dear, give Miss Spyall the umbrella ; she is 
surely ill and should get home with all possible speed. 

Miss Spyall. — Not at all, not at all, sir ; it is your insolent 
wife who needs your attention. 

Nicholas. — What is the meaning of such singular language ? 
( picks up bottle) You have not been tampering with this ? 
\_Enters Biddy R. E. holding shawl in her hands^ 

Biddy. — Look at me shplendid shawl ! An illigant present 
that oi've just received, {unfolds shawl and advances towards 
rear of table^ 

Nicholas. — Some other time, Biddy; we are engaged at 
present. 

Miss Spyall {aside). — The whole family are certainly crazy. 

Matilda. — I'm in no humor to look at shawls ; I prefer 
taking a dissolving view of somebody's back, (looks at Miss 
Spyall^ 

Biddy {holds up shawl with both hands). — Pat, get behind the 
shawl. 



40 GETTING READY. 

Pat. — {crawls behind the shawl ^ screens himself from view, 
and moves off with Biddy). 

Biddy, (backing towards the door) — It shows better at a dis- 
tance, mum. 

Nicholas {advancing to Biddy). — This must cease. 

Biddy. — Don't come too close ; ye'll shpoil the effect 

Matilda. — Take the shawl from her. 

Nicholas. — Let me have it. {pulls shawl from Biddy ^ expos- 
ing Pat to view). 

Pat ( bowing). — Yez'll pardon me, but I was always 
bashful, 

Nicholas. — Explain yourself, at once ! 

Matilda. — Look after the teaspoons ! 

Miss Spyall {aside). — Here's a nut to crack! Here's a 
scandal. 

Biddy {crying and holding apron to eyes). — I'll tell yez the 
truth. Patsy and meself are engaged to be married, and seein' 
as I was to be lift alone in this big barn of a house, an' bem 
timid, the poor man jist happened in to kape me company for 
a few minutes. 

Pat. — What she says is intirely true, your honors ; it's 
meself that can bring a reference the lingth of me arrum. 

Nicholas. — Enough. Biddy is too good a girl to be guilty 
of even a wrong thought. Our spoons are safe, and I {all 
advancing to front) have but one suggestion to make, that in 
future you entertain him in the kitchen, where you will not be 
likely to be disturbed by unwelcome visitors. 

Matilda. — If I thought I would be free from unwelcome 
visitors (looking at Miss Spyall) I'd go to the kitchen too. 

Pat. — The nixt kitchen we mate in will be the kitchen of 
Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dolan ; how do ye loike that ? 

Miss Spyall {aside). — Well I'm supplied with a lot of fresh 
news anyhow. {All take positions}^ 



THE HUMORS OF ELOCUTION. ^j 

Nicholas. — And as there appears to be a wedding near at 
hand, we must prepare for it ; so we'll say good night — and 
dream of getting ready. 

[curtain.] 

Geo. M. Vickers. 



The Humors of Elocution 

Sitting in our Library some few weeks ago we were startled 
by a resounding knock upon the door, and in answer to our 
summons, " Come in," a large woman entered, followed by a 
bouncing girl of seventeen or thereabouts. The costumes of 
both bespoke them to be just from the rural districts. After a 
courtesy from the woman, followed by a fac-simile from the 
girl, the former said : " We've heard that you was a good hand 
at learnin' people fur to speak pieces, and Samanthy here hez 
to spout at the next meetin' of our Lyceum, and she wants 
you fur to larn her somethin' funny. You see. all the young 
folks down our way has gone just cracked over speakin' pieces, 
and the school ma'am has been coachin' 'em, but Samanthy 
wants to do better nor the rest, and wants to hev it to say that 
she has took lessons from a reg'lar purfessor, so I thought if 
you would find her a piece and coach her on it, I wouldn't 
begrudge a quarter of a dollar, even if I has to save it out of 
my egg-money, then if she'll hold on to what she larns she 
can go ahead of the hull caboodle of 'em." Seeing in the 
credulous face of the old woman a rich chance for some fun at 
her expense we said : " Is it howld on ye say? An' didn't I 
howld on till the heart of me was clane broke intoirely, an' me 
wastin' that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands." 
" Oh, law !" exclaimed the old woman, is elocution so bad on 
you as that, but you don't seem to look the wuss for it now." 
" Seems ! madam, nay, it is ! I know not seems ! Oh that this 



42 



THE HUMORS OF ELOCUTION. 



too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a 
dew." " Oh, I catch your meanin' now. You mean you was 
thin and then you got fleshy. That's just like my husband's 
sister's son's wife. You see she was always kind o' sickly, but 
she was such a shrew — " Oh, yes, " tis about twenty years 
since Abel Law, a short, round-favored, merry old soldier of 
the Revolutionary war was wedded to a most abominable 
shrew." " No marm, you're mistaken, her husband's name was 
Timothy Titcomb, and he never was a soldier, but he was jest 
like a rollin' stone, he never made nothin' — " " Off a rollin' 
shtone vas der root of all efil, und a settin' hens vould catch 
der early vorm by chance der usual vay, alzo der early bird 
vould not got fat on moss ofer he don't had vorms, ain't it ?" 
The girl who had been standing at one side with her mouth 
wide open, here pulled her mother's sleeve and whimpered, 
" Mom, let's go. I'm afeared ! I think that woman's mad;' 
We turned upon her with — 

•* I'm mad, I'm mad, I know Pm mad, 
Enough to drive one mad, 
Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad. 
It is to lose one's child. 

Samantha subsided and flew behind her mother like a chicken 
behind an old hen. The old woman laid her hand tenderly 
on our shoulder, and said sympathizingly : " Poor creetur she's 
lost a child; I think I'd go crazy, too, if I lost Samanthy. Poor 
lamb ! " 

** Mary haf got a leetle lambs already, 
Dose wool vas vite like shnow, 
Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud. 
Dot lambs vent oud vid Mary." 

" Massy sakes ! " cried the woman, " what do you call your- 
self, Dutch, Irish or American ? " My father and mother are 
Irish, and I am Irish too." "Mon dieu, madame, vat you please." 



THE REASON WHY. 



43 



** Is this a dagger which I see before me, its handle toward my hand ? 
Come, let me clutch thee, I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
What light is this which surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain ? 
What whistle that, yelling so shrilly? Ah ! I know now, 'tis the train." 

The woman then said, " Samanthy, I think it is time we 
was takin' the train. I don't think I could trust you to come 
here alone. Good day, marm, we must be goin'. I would like 
to send you some of my yarb tea. Its powerful soothin' to 
i-he nerves." 

*» Be that word our sign of parting, 

Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore; 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken, 
Leave my loneliness unbroken. 

By this time she had the door shut, but she went to some of 
the neighbors and asked if our place was not a private lunatic 
asylum. 

F, Lizzie Peirce. 



The Reason Why. 

, Can anybody tell why, when Eve was manufactured from 
one of Adam's ribs, a hired girl wasn't made at the same time 
to. wait on her? 

We can, easily. Because Adam never came whining to Eve 
with a ragged stocking to be darned, a collar button to be 
sewed on, or a glove to be mended " right away quick now." 
Because he never read the newspaper until the sun got down 
behind the palm trees, and then stretched himself, yawning 
out, " Ain't supper most ready, my dear." Not he. He made 
the fire and hung over it the tea-kettle himself we'll venture, 
and pulled the radishes and peeled the bananas^ and did every- 
thing else that he ought to. He milked the cows and i&a the 
chickens and looked after the pigs himself He never brought 
home half a dozen friends to dinner when Eve hadn't any fresh 



44 Nu THING TO WEAR. 

pomegranates and the mango season was over, He nevei 
stayed out until 1 1 o'clock to a ward meeting, hurrahing for the 
out-and-out candidate, and then scolded because poor Eve was 
sitting up and crying inside the gates. To be sure he acted 
rather cowardly about the apple-gathering time, but that don't 
depreciate his general helpfulness about the garden ! He 
never played billiards, nor drove fast horses, nor choked Eve 
with cigar-smoke. He never loafed around corner groceries 
while solitary Eve was rocking little Cain's cradle at home. 
In short, he did not think she was specially created for the 
purpose of waiting on him, and wasn't under the impression 
that it disgraced a man to lighten his wife's cares a little. That 
is the reason that Eve did not need a hired girl, and we wish 
it was the reason that none of her descendant's did. 

— Anon 



Nothing to Wear. 

Toby Simpson, a dealer most worthy and just, 

Slowly wended his way through the rattle and dust 

Of the city. He mused on the cholera scare. 

On his relative chance as a wheat or a tare 

In the prophesied raid. Then he mumbled a prayer. 

And each mud hole he eyed seemed a villainous snare, 

While his conscience said, solemnly, ** Simpson, beware ! 

On the strength of a limited balance in cash 

He had planned for himself and his family a dash 

To the mountains, the seaside, it mattered not where ; 

To delay any longer was more than he dare ; 

Some relief must be had from the terrible flare 

Of the midsummer sun, which would surely impair 

The good health of Dame Simpson, now cross as a bear. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 45 

'Twas quite late in July and old Sol was aglow, 
All the people had gone who had money to go 
From the city to seek a few sniffs of fresh air, 
And forgot for a season their burdens of care ; 
Then no wonder Dame Simpson was heard to declare 
That the Joneses looked up with an insolent stare, 
As she stood at her window exposed to the glare. 

But her husband that ev'ning when rising from tea. 

With his hands full of tickets and heart full of glee, 

Quite as proud as a lion could be in its lair, 

Shouted out : " To the Capes, yes, to-morrow, prepare, 

I've engaged jolly quarters and paid all the fare ! " 

To which mother and daughters, with mock debonair. 

Chorused forth : " Why, dear papa, we've nothing to wear I ** 

With a look most bewildered he clutched at a tray. 

For his mercantile courage was oozing away. 

And his features were grim 'neath his carroty hair ; 

Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and rare 

For those females ! and now could not possibly spare 

An additional stamp. Unaccustomed to swear, 

It was startling to hear him say : '' Darned if it's fair 1 " 

In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat, 
Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his feet 
Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his chair, 
While his face was dejected and full of despair ; 
And he owed not a cent ; his accounts were all square — 
No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear 
Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there. 

George M. Vkkers, 



Echo and the Perry. 

Ay, Oliver ! I was but seven, and he was eleven ; 
He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood 
They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven ! 
A small guest at the farm ); but he said, '' Oh ! a girl was no 

good!" 
So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. 
It was sad, it was sorrowful ! Only a girl — only seven ! 
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. 
The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed 

about, 
And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven ? 
I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven — eleven ! 

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet. 

And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered; 

And under and over the branches those little birds twittered. 

While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven. 

A pity — a very great pit}^. One should be eleven. 

But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, 

And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. 

Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should 

scold. 
Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into 

laughter; 
And then some one else — oh ! how softly ! — came after, came after 
With laughter — with laughter came after. 

And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call, 
That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. 
But this was the country — perhaps it was close under heaven ; 
Oh ! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. 
a6 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 4^ 

I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this 
Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all. 
Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver : 
She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, 
Then flashed down her hole like a dart — like a dart from the 

quiver. 
And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss. 

— So this was the country ; clear dazzle of azure and shiver 
And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall 
White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall — 
A little low wall — and looked over, and there was the river, 
The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river, 
Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow; 
But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her 

long flow, 
And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft — very 

low. 
" The ways will be long, but the days will be long," quoth the 

river, 
"To me a long liver, long, long!" quoth the river — the river. 
I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky. 
The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. 
But at last — in a day or two namely — Eleven and I 
Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. 
He said that was Echo. " Was Echo a wise kind of bee 
That had learned how to laugh ; could it laugh in one's eai 

and then fly, 
And laugh again yonder?" "No; Echo" — he whispered it low — 
*' Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see, 
And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he; 
But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. 



48 ECHO AND THE FERR V. 

Vet I that had money — a shilling, a whole silver shilling — 
We might cross if I thought I could spend it." *' Oh ! yes, 1 

was willing " — 
And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, 
And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear 

and merry 
When they called for the ferry ; but, oh 1 she was very — was very 
Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone ; and when Oliver cried, 
" Hie over ! hie over 1 you man of the ferry — the ferry ! " 
By the still water's side she was heard far and wide — she 

replied. 
And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, " You man of 

the ferry, 

You man of — you man of the ferry ! " 

" Hie over! " he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling- 
Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast. 
Such a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on ; it surpassed 
All measure her doubling — so close, then so far away falling, 
Then gone, and no more. Oh ! to see her but once unaware, 
And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure 

she was there). 
Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair. 
We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her 

stead ; 
In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead ; 
By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in 

brown ; 
Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown. 

So we came to the place where the dead people wait till 

God call. 
The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over walL 



ECHO AND 'J HE FKRRY. 



49 



Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound 
And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round 
Might have come in to hide there. But, no ; every oak- 

carven seat 
Was empty. We saw the great Bible — old, old, very old. 
And the parson's great prayer-book beside it; we heard the 

slow beat 
Of the pendulum swing in the tower ; we saw the clear gold 
Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play 
On the low chancel step and the railing ; and Oliver said, 
" Look, Katie ! look, Katie ! when Lettice came here to be 

wed 
She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was 

her gown ; 
And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her." Then 

quoth small Seven : 
" Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon 

ever ? " 
All doubtful : " It takes a long time to grow up," quoth 

Eleven ; 
" You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can 

never 
Last on till you're tall." And in whispers — because it was old 
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not 

told. 
Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of 

old folk. 
Neither heard nor beheld, but about us~in whipers we spoke. 
Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the 

strand. 
While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the 
4 land. 



50 ^LHO AND THE I^ERR V. 

And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, 

''O Katie!" "O Katie!" ''Come on, then!" " Come or 

then I " " For see, 
The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree " — " by the tree." 
"^^ By the tree." Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice 

sweet and merry ; 
* Hie over ! " " Hie over ! " " You man of the ferry"—" the 

ferry." 

" You man of the ferry — " 

" You man of — you man of — the ferry." 

Ay, here — it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; 
All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. 
Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white 
To that little low church ? and will Oliver meet me anon ? 
Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over — passed 

on? 
Will the grave parson bless us ? Hark ! hark ! in the dim 

failing light 
I hear her ! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet 

and merry, 
Now she mocks the man's tone with " Hie over I Hie ovei 

the ferry!" 
"And, Katie." "And, Katie." "Art out with the glow-worms 

to-night. 
My Katie?" "My Katie!" ^For gladness I break into 

laughter 
And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years ; 
Again, some one else — oh, how softly ! — with laughter comei 

after. 

Comes after — with laughter comes after. 

— -Jean Ingelow. 



Roderick Lee. 



This is a wild, lone valley, and the road that threads it through 
Is the loneliest road I know of, and I've traveled not a few ; 
Those hills on the left^ so barren, and yon^ towering, rocky ridge, 
Look down on a sluggish river that is spanned by a moss-grown 

bridge — 
And nigh to the bridge like a sentry, a tall, gray chimney 

stands, 
'Mid the wreck that time has buried 'neath the tangled weeds 

and sands. 

In this valley three ruins moulder that were once three happy 

homes. 
And where once fond voices mingled, now the sly fox fearless 

roams ; 
Then these locks^ were thick and glossy, that are now so sparse 

and gray; 
Then I'd clamber these rocks as willing by night as I would 

by day — 
But, if a royal scepter, if the world"* were promised mine 
To cross again this valley, I would shudder and decline. 

Roderick Lee was a miller, and as grist was hard to find 
Down in his old New Hampshire,^ he had little or naught to 

grind ; 
So, with his young wife blooming and his brown-eyed daughter 

Nell, 



Gestures, i. Left A. O. 2. Left ind. A. O. 3. Point to head. 4. H. 
sweep. 5. H. L. 

SI 



32 ^ RODERICK LEE. 

Together with two young farmers, he came to this® place to 

dw^U : 
And many's the mile of prairie, and many's the forest drear, 
That lay 'twixt the far-off Merrimack^ and the stream^ that 

ripples here. 

Yet with a heart as buoyant and as brave as it was true. 

Young Lee, 'mid the cheers at parting, bade his native town 
adieu ; 

Then came the weeks of toiling, aye, months, ere the scorching 
plain 

Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the distant moun- 
tain chain ; 

But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made their final 
stand. 

And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his little pilgrim 
band. 

Stay ! even now in fancy, I can see their forms once more, 
I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope they wore — 
Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, Mag and Joe—' 
'Neath that oak^ I see them kneeling, tho' 'tis thirty years ago! 
And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed another year, 
Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn hung rip^ X> 
the ear. 

Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, well knew, 
And Mag and her raw-boned Harry, lived as loving couples 

do; 
But, as their homes were childless, very natural-like it fell 



6. H. F. 7. H. 1.. 8. II. F. 9. Ind. H. F. 



R ODE RICK- LEE. 53 

That these kind and worthy people thought the world of little 

Nell. 
Many a time they kept her whole days 'gainst her mother's 

will, 
First in the hut by the river^*^, then in the hut by the hill". 

Once in the chill November, when the slender moon^^ hung 

low, 
And the barren hill tops yonder^^ were clad in a gauze of snow ; 
Kate with a gleam of mischief in her bright and twinkling eye. 
Started across the river^"* to the hut of Joe, hard by ; 
And Roderick sat by the window, watching her out of sight. 
Dreamily watching the shadows of that chill November night 

Ere it had seemed a moment she again stood by his chair ; 
She had called at their neighbor's cabin, but Nellie had not 

been there. 
Roderick slowly rising took his rifle from the rack, 
For the road was wild and lonely and led through a forest 

tract ; 
Over the ruts and boulders, chatting, they strode^^ along 
Till the voice of raw-boned Harry was heard in a merry song. 

" Singing for Nell's amusement," said the wife, as she hurried on ; 
" Pity," she added, musing, " that they have no child of their 

own." 
Soon with a hearty greeting they were met at the cabin door, 

10. H. O. ^11. Left H. O. 12. A. O. 13. Left A. O. 14 H. O. 15. H. s^ 



54 



RODERICK LEE. 



"And where is your little daughter?" asked Mag, as she 

scanned them o'er. 
** Question your good man, Harry^^, for I'll venture that he can 

tell," 
Said Kate, then smiling added, " we must stop lending little 

Nell." 

Mag, with a playful gesture drew the bed-room screen" aside, 
" See ! " she exclaimed, " she's not here ; now I hope you are 

satisfied." 
" Come, Maggie, come, don't trifle, for the hour is growing 

late ; 
I know that the child is hiding ; would you have us longer 

wait ? " 
Thus queried Kate, half pleading, when a look akin to fear 
Stole over the face of Harry as he said, *' she is not here! "^^ 

"Not here! O God^^ protect her!" with a gasp young Roderick 

cried. 
And his pale wife like a statue, mute with fright, stood at hi? 

side. 
'Twas but a single moment, yet it seemed like an age to wait 
Ere Mag and Kate with their husbands filed out^'^ through the 

open gate ; 
Dark^^ was the night as a dungeon, for the moon had sunk 

away^^, 
And the far-off cries of a panther^^ filled each breast with dread 

dismay. 

i6. H. O. 17. Left H. O. 18. Shake head. 19. Glance up. 2^ H. F. 
■21. Ver. H. sweep. 22. Let hand fall. 23. H. O 



RODERICK LEE. 



5^' 



On^ through the gloomy forest like a band of ghosts they sped 
Silently, save when the mother sobbed, or a twig snapped 

'neath their tread ; 
" Hark^^ 1 " whispered tall, gaunt Harry, and they stood with 

heads^® bent low. 
While faint on the air of midnight came shrieks^^ of pain and 

woe. 
" Hello ! hello^^ ! " cried Harry ; but they heard no voice 

reply — 
" Heavens ! what means that crimson, that glow^* on the fleecy 

sky? 

See how it spreads^*^ and deepens ! Look ! our cabins are 

ablaze ! " 
Then Roderick paused in terror at the sight that met his gaze 
Light grew the wood about^Hhem ; their shadows fell before. 
For behind^^ them on the hillside leaped the flames from 

Harry's door : 
<4 Qj^33 |*Qj. yQ^^ lives ! " screamed Harry, " on for little Nell ! ' 
Then, like an answering challenge, rose the distant Indians' 

yell. 

Bang! bang! "That's Joe replying; he'll fight 'em game and 

well," 
Were the words that Harry uttered ; " God^ spare my darling 

Nell ! " 
This from the pallid mother ; and the settlers fairly flew 

24. H. r. 25. Raise hand to listen. 26. Bow head. 27. H, F. 28. Hand 
to mouth. 29. A. F. 30. A. sweep. 31. b. H. O. 32. A. B. 33. H. F. 
34. Clasp hands. 



55 RODERICK LEE. 

O'er the matted brush and boulders till the clearing came in 

view. 
Oh, such a sight^^ of ruin ! oh, such a ghastly scene ! 
Stark, dead/^ lay Joe and Edith on the charred and trampled 

green. 

Crouching down 'mid the bushes they watched the painted 

fiends, 
Watched with the strange, grim calmness that despair so often 

lends ; 
" My child ! my child ! " then springing from the group like a 

startled deer, 
Kate rushed^^ o'er the red-lit clearing ere one could interfere — 
The hideous, screeching cut-throats had captured little Nell ; 
But, when they saw her mother, they stood bound, as by a 

spell. 

" Spare !^* oh, spare my darling ! Here, pierce me,^^ strike me 

dead !*^ 
Give back my child, my Nellie ! " the frantic woman said ; 
Then on her panting bosom her daughter's head she laid, 
Then both sank'*^ down in silence, looked up and mutely 

prayed ; 
That was the fatal signal, for on, like a sweeping hell'*^ 
They came with knife and hatchet, with rifle-shot and yell. 

Bravely they fought, yet vainly, that fated settler band. 
Clubbing their empty rifles, meeting them hand to hand ; 
Roderick reeled and staggered, then fell*^ 'neath a crushing 
blow. 



35. b. hands raised V, and head turned away. 36. H. F. 37. H. F. 
38. Clasp hands. 39. b. H. F. 40. b, D. F. 41. b. D. F. 42. P. ind. D. F. 
43. D. F. 



HOLDING A BABY. ,57 

And a whoop of fiendish malice told the triumph of the foe; 
Then like a flash they vanished"" and Roderick bleeding lay, 
Hearing their yells grow fainter, till at last they died away. 

Gray dawned the wintry morning on that awful scene of death, 
And five cold brows of marble were kissed"^ by its chilling 

breath — 
God in his wisdom took them — save Nellie, who ne'er was 

found ; 
And all of them sleep in this valley, each 'neath a grassy 

mound. 
Poor little Nell may be living, but if living she's dead to me ; 
Yes, the tale is indeed a true one — and my name ? — is Roderick 

Lee. 

— Geo. M, Vickers. 

44. H. O. 45. P. D. F. 



Holding a Baby. 

Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a 
woman, laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, ac- 
costed me with *' Say, mister, can I git to Market street on 
these yer cars ? " "You can," I replied. " How long must I 
Wait?" "Madam," said I, noticing the string slipping from 
her bandbox, " may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until 
the car arrives? See, here it comes ! " " I'd rather you'd hold 
Berthy, if you will, mister, 'cause this darned string's a slippin' 
off — quick ! — ketch it ! Land o' misery ! '^rrere be all my things 
scattered over the bricks ! Do hold Berthy while I pick 'em 
up." Here was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, 
while the sidewalk was strewn with every conceivable article, 
from a broken hair brush to a pair of old worsted slippers 



58 HOLDING A BABY. 

" Hurry up, then, madam," cried I, as I reached for the child, 
" I have an appointment and must take this car." Just as I 
took her from the woman's arms, Berthy set up a yell that 
would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had 
gathered up half the articles the car was upon us. Leaving 
her bandbox, she ran to the crossing, and with a " Hold on 
there, you ! " signaled the driver to stop. The latter, taking 
in the situation, kept on, but a fat man standing on the plat- 
form pulled the bell and the car stopped about half a dozen 
yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was inside, 
collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with one 
hand and beckoning with the other, screeched : " If you want 
to ride down, come on ; I ain't a-goin' to anchor here all day ! " 
As soon as the woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I 
started for the car. " Tell your wife to come," yelled the con- 
ductor. I looked back and there stood the woman on the 
corner. " Do you think I'm a-goin' to wade through that 
mud ? " screamed the woman, " for if you do, you're mistaken. 
Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too! " I had reached 
the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking 
cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, " Walk 
along the pavement and get on here ! " A cross old maid 
looking through the window at my elbow remarked aloud : 
" Hear him abuse his poor wife ! " The fat man suggested 
that I should manage the freight and let my wife take the baby. 
The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and 
stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked 
snap, and with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, 
the car started down the street like a ten-penny nail from a 
slap-jack. " Here, madam," said I, in desperation, " take the 
child, I have forgotten my pocket book." She dropped into a 
seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from the car 



THE SPAXISU J/UT//ER. ^g 

the word " scoundrel ! " was hissed into my ear. Turning 
quickly, my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. 
" Go ! " she muttered. Well, I did go ! Friends do you see 
this bald spot on my head ? Well, that reminds me never to 
fool with other people's babies. 

— Geo. M. Vickers. 



The Spanish Mother. 

[Supposed to be related by a veteran French officer.] 

Yes ! I have served that^ noble chief throughout his proud 

career, 
And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near — 
Amidst Italian flowers,^ below the dark pines of the north,^ 
Where'er the Emperor willed"* to pour his clouds of battle 

forth. ~ 

'Twas theft a splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween, 
How his vast spirit filled^ and moved the wheels of the 

machine; 
Wide sounding leagues® of sentient steel, and fires that lived 

to kill,' 
Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will. 

But now my heart is darkened with the shadows* that rise and 

fall 
Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall : 
The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then, 
But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men. 



I. H. O. 2. H. O. 3. Left H. O. 4. D. F. 5. b. H. O. 6. H.O. sweep. 
7. D. O. 8. V. H. O, 



6o THE SPANISH MOTHER. 

The German and the Englishman were each an open foe, 
And open hatred hurled® us back from Russia's blinding snow • 
Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain 
The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding 
soul of Spain. 

I saw a village^^ in the hills, as silent^^ as a dream, 

Naught stirring but the summer sound^^ of a merry mountain 

stream ; 
The evening star^^ just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver 

eye. 
And the chestnut woods^^ were still and calm beneath the 

deepening sky. 

But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found. 
Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the 

ground ; 
Each roofless hut^^ was black with smoke, wrenched up each 

trailing vine. 
Each path was fouP with mangled meat and floods of wasted 

wine. 

We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way, 
And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day. 
The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no 

more, 
But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore. 

We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay ; 
His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore^^ and 
wrenched away ; 



9. b. V. par. H. O. 10. H. O. 11. P. H. O. 12. H. L. 13. Left ind. A. O. 
14. H. O. 15. H. O. 16 V. D. O. 17. Sp. 



THE SPANISH MOTHER. 5i 

They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses 

grim, 
" Food, woman — food and wine, or else we tear^* thee limb 

from limb." 

The woman shaking o^ his blood, rose/^ raven-haired and tall, 
And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all. 
" Both food and wine,"^*^ she said, " I have ; I meant them for 

the dead,^^ 
But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead." 

The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret 

place,^^ 
But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor's 

face; 
Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien, 
Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene. 

She glided here,^ she glided there,^ before our wondering eyes, 
Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor sur- 
prise ; 
At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran. 
And made us pale and silent as that^^ silent murdered man. 

She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet ; 
Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled^^ red around our 

feet. 
On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine. 
And we like marble statues glared — a chill, unmoving line. 

1 8. b. CI. H. O. as though tearing apart. 19. raise hand P. 20. Look 
to left. 21. D. O. 22. Left H. L. 23. H. F. 24. H. O. 25. Ind. D 
O. 26. P. D. sweep. 



62 THE SPANISH MOTHER. 

All white, all cold ; and moments thus flew by without a breath, 
A company of living things where all was still — but death f 
My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood 
And watched^^ the only thing that stirred — the rippling of the 
blood. 

That woman's voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn 

spell, 
And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell — 
„ Ho! "^^ slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak! 
What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats^^ and life-bought 

wine ye seek ? 

Feed, and begone !^^ I wish to weep — I bring you out my 

store^^ — ' 
Devour^^ it — waste^"* it all — and then — ^pass^^ and be seen no 

more. 
Poison! Is that your craven fear?" She snatched the goblet^® 

up 
And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup. 

But our fierce leader grasped her wrist — " No, woman ! No ! " 

he said, 
"A mother's heart of love is deep — give it your child^^ instead." 
She only smiled a bitter smile — " Frenchmen, I do not shrink — 
As pledge of my fidelity, behold^* the infant drink ! " 

He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost 

soul; 
But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl. 

27. D. O. 28. Look to D. O. 29. Look to left. 30. H. F. 31. H. L. 32. 
b. H. O. 33-34. Impulses. 35. H. sweep. 36. Sp. 37. Left D. O. 38. In- 
clination of head to D. O. 



THE SPANISH MOTHER. 6^ 

And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing- idle care, 
Sat down^^ to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare. 

The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and 

light; 
But / was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that 

night; 
I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain*^ 
Stung, sharper than a serpent's tooth, an infant's cry of pain. 

Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous 

cheer, 
To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear. 
"Aye," shrieked the woman, darting up, "I pray you trust 

again 
A widow's hospitality in our unyielding"*^ Spain. 

Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God^ Himself I swore 
To treat you^ as you treated him^ — that"^ body on the floor. 
Yon secret place^^ I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare. 
The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there. 

A mother's love is deep, no doubt ; ye did not phrase it ill, 

But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still. 

The Spanish woman speaks for Spain ;'*^ for her butchered 

love,^^ the wife. 
To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life. 

I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on, 
Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath*® a single 
stone; 

39. B. H. O. 40. Hand to head. 41. D. F. 42 Point up. 43. H.F. 44. D 
O. 45. Ind. D. O. 46. Left H. L. 47- H. sweep. 48. D. O. 49. P. D. O. 



64 AN" ENGINEER'S RIDE ON A PIANO. 

I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by, 
I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. 

But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts 

of prey, 
And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore^ the quivering life 

away — 
Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain. 
Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of 

Spain. 

And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild. 
Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,^* around the mother and 

her child — 
While she,^^ distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while, 
And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchang- 
ing smile. 

— Sir Francis Hastings Doyle, 



§©. Sp. 51- H. Sw. 52. H. F. 



An Engineer's Eide on a Piano. 

Bill Jones is my fireman ; we have run together on old 
" thirty-six " for more than twenty years. One night when 
we were off duty, said Bill, '' Jim, let's take in a show." 
" Where ? " I replied, at the same time scanning the bill- board 
at the end of the depot. " See ! " cried Bill, " Mons. De Frog- 
limb, the great French piano virtuoso — " " That's enough, 
Bill," said I, " we'll go " — and we did. He was a Frenchman , 
looked like an animated switch-signal. I am an old engineei, 
and have often whistled through the wind, but that virtuoso ! — 
Well, as soon as he sat down on the stool I knew by the way 




GLADYS WALLACE. 



MY LIPS ARE PADLOCKED, 
HOUR . EVEN IF 



AND I WOULD NOT L'SP THE SECRETS OF THAT 
TWERE TO HAVE THE LAST WORD." 




ALEXANDER SALVINI. 



there! bring my love the shattered glass- 
charge ON THE FOEl NO JOYS SURPASS 
ISUCH DYING I 

THE TROOPER'S DEATH 




I<ISTEN! 'TIS A FAMII.Y SECRET. 




HAUGHTINESS. 




HARK, THE ANGELIC VOICES! 




DISAPPOINTMENT 




OH! I CAN ALMOST SEE THEM 




COMIC RKCTTATION 













r 




^^SBI^?^ 


* 



COQUETRY 




A COQUETTISH RECITATION. 




T REPEL THE ACCUSATION 




ASPIRATION 



i 




VIRGINIA HARNED AS "TRILBY." 
Copyright by E. Ciuckeringr '95. By Arrangement of Harper Bros, and A, M, r&lmet 



I 





A 






%hf 






^RPI 




HlB^ 


^ I'^^'Wn^^ ^' ^ 






j3[BHB^^^^B[BIIII^Bpr #Bg,M^. ^ 






-' if 


i 
1 




#1 






f 4 











RECOGNITION. 




VIRGINIA HARNED and SYBIL ALGER. 



NOW RESTING HERE THY HEAD, SING ONE SWEET SONQ 
AS RESTS THE BIRD UPON ITS WILLING PERCH 
AND TWITTERS TO THE COMING DAWN." 




I 




TO LOOK YOUR PRETTIEST— AS IF THAT WERE VANITYT 



AN ENGINEEF'S RIDE ON A PIANO. 65 

he handled himself that he understood the machine he was 
running. He tapped the keys away up one end, just as if they 
were gauges and he wanted to see if he had water enough. 
Then he looked up as if he wanted to know how much steam 
he was carrying, and the next moment he pulled open the 
throttle and sailed out on the main line as if he was a half an 
hour late. 

" You could hear her thunder over culverts and bridges, and 
getting faster and faster, until the fellow rocked about in his 
seat Hke a cradle. Somehow I thought it was old ^ thirty-six* 
pulling a passenger train and getting out of the way of a ' spe- 
cial.' The fellow worked his keys on the middle division like 
lightning, and then he flew along the north end of the line 
until the drivers went around like a buzz-saw, and I got ex- 
cited. About tfie time I was fixing to tell him to cut her off 
a little, he kicked the dampers under the machine wide open, 
pulled the throttle away back in the tender, and, Jerusalem 
jumpers! how he did run ! I couldn't stand it any longer, and 
yelled to him that she was * pounding ' on the left side, and if 
he wasn't careful he'd drop his ashpan. 

" But he didn't hear me. No one heard me. Everything 
was flying and whizzing. Telegraph poles on the side of the 
track looked like a row of cornstalks, the trees appeared to be 
a mud bank, and all the time the exhaust of the old machine 
sounded like the hum of a bumblebee. I tried to yell out, but 
my tongue wouldn't move. He went around the curves like 
a bullet, slipped an eccentric, blew out his soft plug, went down 
grades fifty feet to the mile, and not a confounded brake set. 
She went by the meeting point at a mile and a half a minute 
and calling for more steam. My hair stood up like a cat's tail, 
because I knew the game was up. 

" Sure enough, dead ahead of us was the head-light of the 



56 THE WORLD'S HERO. 

* special.' In a daze I heard the crash as they struck, and I 
saw cars shivered into atoms, people mashed and mangled, 
and bleeding, and gasping for water. I heard another crash 
as the French professor struck the deep keys away down on 
the lower end of the southern division, and then I came to my 
senses. There he was, at a dead standstill, with the door 
of the fire-box of the machine open, wiping the perspiration off 
his face, and bowing at the people before him. If I live to be 
a thousand years old I'll never forget the ride that French- 
man gave me on a piano." 



The World's Hero. 

[Recited by F. Lizzie Peirce at the Annual Re-union of the Independent UA 
erary Society, August 8th, 1885.] 

Go search the annals of the human race, 
Go hear th-e legends that the heathen tell. 
And learn that hist'ry, sacred or profane. 
Records no hero like the mighty Grant. 
Columbia proudly claims him as her own 
And rears her monuments with love and pride ; 
But millions scattered o'er the face of earth. 
And miUions yet unborn, will share that claim : 
Who serves mankind is deemed the friend of man, 
And nations nationalize him in their hearts. 
Since that first famous Battle of the Kings, 
Of which we read in holy writ, no sword 
E'er leaped from scabbard in a juster war 
Than that which made our country free indeeci, 
Which, until then, was only free in name. 
The bond of unity that Washington 
To us bequeathed, Grant's loyal arm maintained. 



THE WORLD'S HERO. 67 

Emancipation of the dusky race 

By Lincoln's heaven-inspired pen, by Grant's 

Unsullied sword was made complete ! 

How well 
He proved the potency of equal rights. 
And how he dignified Democracy 
The monarchs of the world have told, thrice told. 
In homage, hospitality and love. 
No land is free where dwells a slave : to-day 
In all our land there dwells no slave, and we 
Are free, forever free ! 

" Let us have peace** 
Clasp hands across the ashes of the dead. 
No, no ; Grant is not dead, he cannot die ; 
The body is the worn-out coat of mail, 
That with his sword and shield the warrior casts 
Aside when life's campaign is o'er, and home. 
Eternal home, is reached. 

He IS not dead 
Whose power still exists ; and Grant will live 
A life of immortality while yet ^ 
Our starry banner floats for liberty, 
Which, thanks to God, will be forevermore. 

— Geo, M, Vickers, 



The Little Black-eyed Rebel, 



A BOY drove into the city, his wagon loaded down 
With food to feed the people of the British-governed to>vii ; 
And the little black-eyed rebel, so cunning and so sly^ 
Was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. 

His face was broad and honest, his hands were brown and 

tough, 
The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and 

rough ; 
But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered 

^ nigh, 
And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. 

He drove up to the market, he waited in the line : 
His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine. 
But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, 
Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her 
eye. 

" Now, who will buy my apples ? he shouted, long and loud ; 
And, ''Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the crowd. 
But from all the people round him came no word of reply, 
Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her 
eye. 

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that 
day 
6^ 



THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL. 6g 

Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, 
Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain, 

or die ; 
And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. 

But the treasures — how to get them ? crept the question 

through her mind, 
Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might 

find ; 
And he paused a while and pondered, with a pretty little sigh. 
Then resolve, crept through her features, and a shrewdness 

fired her eye. 

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red. 
'' May I have a dozen apples for a kiss ?" she sweetly said ; 
And the brown face flushed to scarlet, for the boy was some- 
what shy. 
And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. 

'' You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," 

quoth he. 
''I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," 

said she. 
And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, 
With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. 

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white 
and small. 

And then whispered, " Quick ! the letters ! thrust them under- 
neath my shawl ! 

Carry back again t/iis package, and be s,ure that you are spry" ! 

And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. 



70 EXPERIENCE WITH A REFRACTORY COW. 

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, un- 

girlish freak ; 
And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could 

not speak. 
And *' Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry ; 
But she answered, " No, I thank you," from the corner of 

her eye. 

With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends would 

they greet. 
Searching for them who hungered for them, swift she glided 

through the street. 
** There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try," 
Thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye. 

-^Will Carle ton. 



Experience with a Refractory Cow. 

[This piece is very effective given in costume.] 

We used to ketp a cow when we lived in the country, and 
sich a cow ! Law sakes ! Why she used to come to be 
milked as reg'lar as clock-work. She'd knock at the gate 
with her horns, jest as sensible as any other human- critter. 

Her name was Rose. I ne\'er knowed how she got that name, 
for she was black as a kittle. 

Well, one day Rose got sick, and would't eat nothing, 
poor thing ! and a day or so arter she died. I raly do be- 



EXPERIENCE WITH A REFRACIOKY COW. yi 

lieve I cried when that poor critter was gone. Well, we went 
for a little spell without a cow, but I told Mr. Scruggins it 
wouldn't do, no way nor no how ; and he gin in. Whenever I 
sdiid must yiw Scruggins knowed I meant it. Well, a few days 
arter, he come home with the finest cow and young calf yoy 
ever seed. He gin thirty dollars for her and the calf, and two 
levies to a man to help bring her home. Well, they drove her 
into the back yard, and Mr. Scruggins told me to come out 
and see her, and I did ; and I went up to her jest as I used to 
did to Rose, and when I said *' Poor Sukey," would you be- 
lieve it ? the nasty brute kicked me right in the fore part of my 
back ; her foot catched into my dress — bran-new dress, too — 
cost two levies a yard, and she took a levy's-worth right out as 
clean as the back of my hand. 

I screeched right out and Mr. Scruggins kotched me jest as I 
was dropping, and he carried me to the door, and I went in 
and sot down. I felt kind o' faintish, I was so abominable 
skeered. 

Mr. Scruggins said he would larn her better manners, so he 
picked up the poker and went out, but I had hardly began to 
g<^t a leetle strengthened up afore in rushed my dear husband 
'a-flourishing the poker, and that vicious cow arter him like all 
mad. Mr. Scruggins jumped into the room, and, afore he had 
time to turn round and shut the door, that desperate brute was 
in, too. 

Mr. Scruggins got up on the dining-room table, and I run 
into the parlor. I thought I'd be safe there, but I was skeered 
so bad that I forgot to shut the door, and, sakes alive ! after 
hooking over the dining-room table and rolling Mr. Scruggins 
off, in she walked into the parlor, shaking her head as much 
as to say : " I'll give you a touch now." I jumped on a chair, 
but thinking that warn't high enough, I got one foot on the 



72 



EXPERIENCE WITH A REERACTORY COW. 



^rass knob of the Franklin stove, and put the other on the 
mantel-piece. You ought to ha' seen that cow in our parlor ; 
she looked all round as if she was 'mazed ; at last she looked in 
the looking-glass, and thought she seed another cow exhibiting 
anger like herself; she shuck her head and pawed the carpet, 
and so did her reflection, and — would you believe it ? — that 
awful brute went right into my looking-glass. 

Then I boo-hoo'd right out. All this while was getting 
agonized; the brass knob on the stove got so hot that I had 
to sit on the narrer mantel-piece and hold on to nothing. 
I dussent move for fear Td slip off 

Mr. Scruggins came ro^uid to the front door, but it was 
locked, and then he come te the window and opened it. J 
jumped down and run for the window, and hadn't more'n got 
my head out afore I heard that critter a-coming after me. 
Gracious ! but I was in a hurry ; more haste, less speed, al'- 
ways ; for the more I tried to climb qu^'ck the longer it took, 
and just as I got ready to jump down, that brute of a cow 
kotched me in the back and turned me o\'er a.pd over out of 
the window. 

Well, when I got right side up, I looked at the v/n^dow and 
there stood that cow, with her head between the whr'tc and red 
curtains, and another piece of my dress dangling on her horns. 

Well, my husband and me was jest starting for the little 
alley that runs alongside of the house, when the cow give ^ 
bawl, and out of the window she come, whisking her tail, 
which had kotched fire on the Franklin stove, and it served her 
right. 

Mr. Scruggins and me run into the alley in such haste we 
got wedged fast. Husband tried to get ahead, but I'd been 
in the rear long enough, and I wouldn't let him. That dread 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 73 

ful cow no sooner seen us in the alley, than she made a dash, 
but thank goodness ! she stuck fast, too. 

Husband tried the gate, but that was fast, and there wasn't 
nobody inside the house to open it. Mr. Scruggins wanted to 
climb over and unbolt it, but I wouldn't let him. I wasn't go- 
ing to be left alone again with that desperate cow, even if she 
was fast ; so I made him help me over the gate. Oh, dear, 
climbing a high gate when you're skeered by a cow is a dread- 
ful thing, and I know it ! 

Well, I got over, let husband in, and then it took him and 
me and four other neighbors to get that dreadful critter out 
of the alley. She bellered and kicked, and her calf bellered 
to her, and she bawled back again ; but we got her out at last, 
and such a time ! I'd had enough of her; husband sold her 
for twenty dollars next day. It cost him seventy-five cents to 
get her to market, and when he tried to pass off one of the 
five dollar bills he got, it turned out to be a counterfeit. 

Mr. Scruggins said to his dying day that he believed the 
brother of the man that sold him the cow bought it back again. 
I believe it helped to vv^orry my poor husband into his grave. 
Ah, my friends, you better believe I know what a cow is. 



Mary, Queen of Scots. 

[First Honor at Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and 
Languages, 1885.] 

I looked far back^ into other years, and lo ! in bright array, 
I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. 
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls. 
And gardens with their broad green walks^ where soft th^ foot- 
steps falls ; 

Gestures, i. H. F. 2. P. D. O. 



74 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

And o'er the antique dial stone^ the creeping shadow passed. 
And all around,^ the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. 
No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister^ dim. 
The tinkling^ of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. 
And there' five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, 
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects 

please ; 
And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper 

prayers, 
That Scotland knew no prouder^ names, held none more dear 

than theirs : 
And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine, 
Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line! 
Calmly her happy days fiew on,^ uncounted in their flight, 
And as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light. 

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of 

Bourbon, 
And 'neath a thousand^^ silver lamps a thousand courtiers" 

throng ; 
And proudly kindles Henry's^^ eye — well pleased, I ween, to see 
The land assemble alP^ its wealth of grace and chivalry ; 
But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, 
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she,^"* the new-made bride ! 
The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond deep love of one — 
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but 

begun — 
They lighten up her chestnut eye,^^ they mantle o'er her cheek, 
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak ; 

3. H. O. 4. b. H. O. 5. Left H. O. 6. Hand raised to listen. 7. H. O. 
8. A. O. 9. H. sweep. 10. b. A. O. 11. b. H. O. 12. H. O. 13. b. H. O. 
»4. H. O. 15. H. O. sustained with slight impulses from the wrist upon each clause. 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. yc 

Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its bril- 
liant hours, 

She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its 
flowers ? 

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its 

way. 
And o'er its lee^® the coast of France in the light of evening 

lay; 
And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes 
Upon the fast-receding hills,^^ that dim and distant rise. 
No marvel that the lady wept — there was no land on earth^® 
She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her 

birth ; 
It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends- 
It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends— 
The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she 

had known 
The tranquil convent's hushed repose,^^ and the splendors of a 

throne^" ; 
No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of France— 
The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance! 
The past was bright, like those fair hills^^ so far beyond her 

bark ; 
The future^^, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark^^ ! 
One gaze again — one long, last gaze — *' Adieu, fair France, to 

thee ! "^^ 
The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea! 



i6. H. L. 17. H. B. 18. D. F. 19. P. F. 20. A. O. 21. H. K 22. 
H. F. 23. b. V. H. O. 24. Sweep from face to H. B. (must be graceftll 01 
leave out). 



^6 MAJ^Y, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, 
And in a turret chamber high^^ of ancient Holyrood 
Sat Mary, listening^® to the rain, and sighing with the winds, 
That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. 
The touch of care had blanched her cheek, — her smile was 

sadder now, 
The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow ; 
And traitors to her councils^^ came, and rebels to the field -^ 
The Stuart Scepter well she swayed, but the Sword she could 

not wield. 
She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of youth's 

brief day, 
And summoned Rizzio^^ with his lute, and bade the minstrel 

play 
The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Nevarre, 
The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar; 
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed^^ her into 

smiles. 
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic 

broils ; 
But hark P the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle cry I 
They come, they come !^^ — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's 

hollow eye ! 
And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words 

are vain^^ — 
The ruffian steel is in his heart^^— the faithful Rizzio's slain ! 
Then Mary dashed^^ aside the tears that trickling fell ; 
" Now for my father's arm ! "^® she said, " my woman's heart, 

farewell I "«' 

25. A. F. 26. Incline head to listen. 27. H. F. 28. H. O. 29. Left H.L. 
30. P. H. sweep. 31. Raise hand to listen. 32. H. F. 33. D. L. 34. P. 
ind. D. F. 35. Special. 36. Cli. raised. 37. H. L. 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. yy 

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely 
isle, 

And there^ within the prison-walls of its baronial pile, 

Stern men stood menacing their Queen, till she should stoop 
to sign 

The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ances- 
tral line. 

" My lords, my lords ! " the captive said, " were I but once 
more free. 

With ten good knights on yonder shore^^, to aid my cause and 
me. 

That parchment would I scatter'**^ wide to every breeze that 
blows, 

And once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my remorseless 
foes ! " 

A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed her rich tresses 
down, 

She wrote the words — she stood erect-^a QUEEN WITH- 
OUT A CROWN/ 

The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner*^ bore, 
And the faithful of the land stood round^ their smiling Queen 

once more ; 
She stayed her steed upon a hill — she saw them marching 

by^^ 
She heard their shouts — she read success in every flashing eye. 
The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away ;** 
And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where are 

they?« • 



38. LeftH. O. 39. H.O. 40. b.H.O. 41. A. F. 42. b. H. O. 43. H. 
sweep. 44. H. L. 45. b. H. O. 



78 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

Scattered and strown and flying*^ far, defenseless and undone*' — 
Alas ! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won ! 
— Away ! away I''* thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part; 
Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart! 

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman'"' 

stood, 
And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip 

with blood. 
With slow and steady step there came a lady^^ through the hall, 
And breathless silence^^ chained the lips and touched the hearts 

of all. 
I knew that queenly form^^ again, though blighted was its 

bloom — 
I saw that grief had decked it out — an offering for the tomb ! 
I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly 

shone : 
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every 

tone. 
I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold; 
I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould! 
Even now I see^^ her far away, in that calm convent aisle, 
I hear^^ her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile — 
Even now I see^^ her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn, 
A new star^ in the firmament, to light and glory^^ born ! 
Alas ! the change ! — she placed her foot upon a triple throne, 
And on the scaffold^ now she stands — beside the block— 

ALONE ! 

:46. H. L. 47. D. L. 48. Left H. L. 49- H. F. 50. Left H. O. 51. b. 
P. H. O. 52. Left H. O. 53. H. O. 54. Listen. 55. H. O. 56. Ind. A. O 
57. A. sweep. 58. H. F. 



THE YANKEE STILL AHEAD. rr,, 

The little dog that licks her hand — ^the last of a/i the crowd 
That sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her 
footsteps bowed ! 

— Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul has passed^* 

away! 
The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay !®* 
The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, 
Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the 

floor !«i 
The blood of beauty, wealth and power — the heart blood^^ of a 

Queen — 
The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth has seen — 
Lapped by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ; 
Then weigh against a grain®^ of sand the glories^^ of a throne! 

H.G.BelL 

59. A. F. 60. H. F. 61. D. F. 62. Ind. H. F. 63. D. O. 64. A. O. 



The Yankee Still Ahead. 

A Yankee, visiting London, and passing along one of the 
principal thoroughfares of trade and travel, stopped to look at 
some beautiful specimens of writing paper exposed for sale in 
a shop window ; he gazed long and earnestly at the gorgeous 
display, when presently he turned and encountered the pro- 
prietor of the establishment standing at the door. The Yankee 
politely said : 

" Will ye tell me what ye du with them nice bits of paper ?" 

" Yes, we keep them to tie up gape-seed in," was the 
snappish response. 

" Oh, ye du, du ye? " said Jonathan, with a sly twinkle in his 
eye, as he walked on. Passing down the street a short distance 



8o THE YANKEE STILL AHEAD, 

our indignant Yankee accosted another merchant, to whom he 
said : " Mister, can ye tell me what that feller duz for a livin' 
what keeps them nice bits o' paper in his winder ? " 

" Yes, sir; he writes letters for persons who desire his assist- 
ance." 

** Du ye think he'd write a letter for me if I'd pay him fur it ?" 

** Certainly he would, and be glad of the chance." 

Our bright-eyed hero thanked him, and turned t^bruptly 
away, walking briskly in the direction from which he came. 
The shop was soon reached, and, fortunately, the same indi- 
vidual stood on the door-step. The Yankee lost no time in 
addressing the cockney, and thus at once began : 

" I say, mister, I heerd that ye write letters fur folks what 
can't write ; what'U ye tax me to write a letter to my uncle 
Peter?" 

"I will charge you five shiUings," he said, in such a changed 
tone of voice that the Yankee had to look again to see that he 
had not mistaken the person. 

" Will ye write jest what I tell ye tu, and spell all the words 
right?" 

'' To be sure I will." 

"And if ye don't, I won't pay ye ; will ye agree to that ? " 

"As I understand my business thoroughly ^ of course I will 
agree to that." 

" Wall, then, ye may commence." 

The scribe arranged his paper, ink and pen, and pron ♦^nced 
himself ready. 

" My dear uncle Peter : — ready fur more ? " 

"Yes." 

"'Rived here in London last week, — have ye got thai 
deown ? " 

" Yes, go on." 



THE YANKEE STILL AHEAD. 3i 

" Thought I'd take a stroll through the woods, — got that 

deown and spelt right ? " 

" Yes, yes ; go on, and do not bother me so." 

" I pay ye five shillings by-and-bye, don't I ? " 

" Yes, but you have no need to detain me so if you do.'* 

" Wall, I walked and walked and walked and walked and 

walked and — " 

" What's the use of saying it over so many times ? " 

** None o' your business, — I pay ye five shillings, — and 

walked and walked and walked — " 

"See here, this page is full of the words ' and walked.' " 

" Turn over then, — and walked and walked, and I couldn't 

find any woods. Have ye got all that deown and spelt right?" 
" Yes, but why don't you go on." 
" Jest then I stopped to think what I should du, or where to 

go, — got that all deown ? " 
(Snappishly) " Yes." 
" Wall, then I seen a sign, and on it wuz : * Teams to hire,* 

so I went up and told the man to give me a fust-rate team with 

a hoss I could easy manage myself My ! but you write fast. 

Is all that deown ? " (Surprised). 

" It is, and I would like to have the rest of your letter, sir." 
" Wall, that hoss started off all right, but in less than two 

minutes she got stubborner than any mule ; and I hed to get? 

eout, and lick her and kick her and prick her and lick her and 

kick her and prick her, (continue to repeat these words very 

rapidly), and she wouldn't go. Is that all deown, and spelt 

right?" 

" You are only losing time, sir, in repeating that last phrase." 
"That's my business, — When I see'd she wouldn't go fur 

lickin', I tried to coax her, and coaxed and coaxed and coaxed 

and coaxed and coaxed, but she wouldn't go ; then I got cross- 



^2 TOMMY'S DEATHBED. 

like and went — *' (here the Yankee makes a chirruping sounc? 
which bids defiance to orthography). 

" I can't spell that," said the Englishman. 

" Oh, ye can't spell that, can't ye ? Then ye needn't write 
any more for me." 

" Need not write any more ! " 

" No more," was the composed reply of the Yankee, as he 
laid his hand over his fat pocket and said : 

'' I 'spose ye remember our agreement ? " 

" Yes, I do, but what's to be done with all this paper ? " 

" Keep it to tie up gape-seed in. Good bye, sir ! " and the 
Yankee made a speedy exit. 

Arranged by S, Anna Gesemyer, 



Tommy's Deathbed. 

But hush ! the voice from the little bed, 
And the watchful mother bent her head. 
" Mammy, I know that I'm soon to die 
And I want to wish them all good-bye. 

I shouldn't like any here to say, 
* He didn't shake hands when he went away ; 
He was glad to be off to his harp and wings 
And couldn't remember his poor old things.* 

In Heaven I never should feel content 

If I hadn't been kind before I went ; 

So let me take leave of them, great and small, 

Animals, people and toys and all." 

So the word went, forth, and in no great while 
The servants entered in solemn file — 



TOMMY'S DEATHBED. 

The stout old cook, and the housemaid. Rose, 
And the aproned boy, with his smutted nose. 

So each of the women, with streaming cheek. 
Bent over and kissed him and could not speak ; 
But he said that they must not grieve and cry, 
For they'd meet again in the happy sky. 

'Twas longer and harder to deal with Jim— 
The child grew grave as he looked at him, 
For he thought to himself, " He bets and swears, 
And I hardly believe that he says his prayers. 

Oh, Jim, dear Jim, if you do such things 
You'll never be dressed in a harp and wings." 
He talked to the boy as a father should. 
And begged him hard to be grave and good. 

The lad lounged out with a brazen air 
And whistled derisively down the stair. 
But they found him hid in the hole for coal, 
Sobbing and praying in grief of soul. 

Old " Rover " came next, sedate and good. 
And gazed at his master and understood ; 
Then up we carried, in order due, 
" Maria," the cat, and her kittens two. 

Proud purred the mother, and arched her back, 
And vaunted her kittens, one white, one black ; 
And the sweet white kitten was good and still, 
But the black one played with his nightgown's frill. 



83 



84 TOMMY'S DEATHBED. 

He stroked them all with his poor weak hand 
But he felt they could not understand. 
He smiled, however, and was not vext, 
And bade us bring him the rabbit next. 

He welcomed " Punch " with a loving smile, 
And hugged him close in his arms awhile ; 
And we knew (for the dear child's eyes grew dim) 
How grievous it was to part with him. 

His mother he bade, with tearful cheek, 
Give " Punch " his carrot three days a week. 
With lettuce-leaves on a cautious plan, 
And only just moisten his daily bran. 

Then next we brought to him, one by one, 
His drum and his trumpet, his sword and gun ; 
And we lifted up for his fondling hand 
His good gray steed on the rocking-stand. 

Then close to his feet we placed a tray. 
And we set his armies in array ; 
And his eyes were bright with fire and dew 
As we propped him up for his last review. 

His ark came next, and pair by pair, 
Passed beasts of the earth and fowls of the air ; 
He kissed good Japheth, and Ham, and Shem, 
And waved his hands to the rest of them. 

But we saw that his eyes had lost their fire, 
And his dear little voice began to tire ; 
He lay quite still for a little while. 
With eyes half-closed and a peaceful smile. 



GOING TO MARKET. 



85 



Then " Mammy," he said, and never stirred, 
And his mother bent for the whispered word; 
'' Give him his carrot each second day," 
Our Tommy murmured, and passed away. 



Going to Market. 

Oh, dear ! these are dull times. What is a body to do ? 
Bills cannot be collected, the season for business is over, and 
prospects for relief look decidedly blue. How can a woman 
buy a Saturday's marketing for eight persons with only five 
dollars ? The idea is preposterous ! I could cry my eyes out 
with perplexity, but what's the use ? 

Moses Flint is a good husband ; he dotes on me, I know ; 
yet he has no more idea of the cost of a shoulder of mutton 
than a Kickapoo Indian has of a sewing machine. Well, there's 
no use of standing here talking about it ; it must be done, but 
how ? Oh, my poor head ! 

One pound of butter, fifty cents ; observe — sixteen ounces of 
butter for eight persons, just two ounces apiece, to last until 
Monday morning. Why, Moses himself eats two ounces at a 
meal ! The thought distracts me. Butter, fifty ; potatoes, 
twenty-five ; onions, fifteen ; he will have onions on Sunday ; 
won't eat 'em through the week ; says they interfere with his 
business ; but it makes no difference the day he spends with 
me. I wonder if my nostrils are better adapted to smell onions 
than Jhose of his customers ? Men are strange mortals, any- 
how ; my Moses will get shaved and polish his boots to go to 
the lodge, but let me ask him to go with me to the dress- 
makers, or to the Muggins', and he won't even put on a clean 
collar. The lodge must be a very particular place. 

Cabbage for slaw, ten ; there is a dollar gone already. A 



86 THE MERRY SUNFLOWER. 

pair of chickens, one dollar and fifty cents ; rabbits would be 
cheaper, but he insists on chickens. It provokes me so. Last 
Sunday every blessed one wanted a drum-stick ; of course two 
fowls have but four drum-sticks, therefore, as intimated before, 
only four got the four, which left the other four to envy the 
lucky four who got the four drum-sticks, and to content them- 
selves with breasts and wings. For my part, I got only a neck 
and a gizzard. Well, I'll do the best I can, but I'll manage to 
squeeze out enough for two yards of that cherry-colored ribbon 
at Jones', dinner or no dinner, or my name isn't Sarah Flint. 

— Geo, M. Vickers, 

The Merry Sunflower. 

With a little ingenuity and with six musical voices this 
piece may be made a very pleasing and attractive feature in 
an evening's entertainment. Procure a piece of sheeting at 
least six feet in length by five in width. Fasten the lower 
lengthwise edge to the floor of the stage, and the upper edge, 
by means of cords or other fastenings, to the ceiling. Cut three 
holes about the height of a person's face in standing and of the 
shape and size of the face, and three others at kneeling height ; 
then around these holes paint or paste on paper to represent 
the petals of immense sunflowers, with stalks attached. The 
singer's faces occupy the holes, and the words ar*? sung to the 
air of " The Little Brown Jug." 

1ST VOICE. 

Oh, I'm a namesake of the Sun, 
Prized and loved by every one. 

2D VOICE. 

Quite tall and stately here am I, 



Oscar Wilde for me would sigh. 



Chorus. 



. HINTS ON EXPRESSION. g^ 

Oh, proud the rose and pink may be. 
Still they're naught compared with me; 
We look down on all the rest, 
Thus of flowers we are the best 

3D VOICE. 

Yes, you're a beauty, so am I, 
Sitting on my throne so high ! 

4TH VOICE. 

Rich black and yellow, gold and brown. 
Who's not heard of my renown ? 

Chorus, 

5TH VOICE. 

Mister Sol he flirts with me, 
Tries his best my face to see ! 

6th VOICE. 

Here list'ning to the warbler's song 
Rock I all the summer long. 

ChoTUS, 



Hints on Expression. 

Expression consists in so modulating the voice by means 
of the different degrees of pitch, force, rate, and rhetorical 
pause, as to perfectly convey every shade of meaning con- 
tained in the sentiment; in other words, it is painting with 
sound. As perfect a picture can be conveyed to the ear by 
means of voice as to the eye through color ; and in order to 
utilize this life-coloring of modulation in reading, you must first 
acquire a thorough conception of the meaning of the author; 
try to place yourself in sympathy with the sentiments you 
are to utter, adopt them and put them into your own words, 
notice how you express them, what degrees of force come 



S$ THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL ANGEL. 

natural to them, what pitch and slides, degrees of rate, what 
pauses between words and upon words best bring out their 
meaning, and then take up again the author's words, and try 
to give them as nearly as possible like your own ; you will 
find the battle is half won. One of the greatest obstacles in 
the way of giving true expression is the presence of the printed 
page before the eye. The words are repeated one after the 
other mechanically, while the thoughts are perhaps upon an- 
other subject. An artist cannot paint a picture without first 
drawing it in his mind ; so we cannot paint a word picture 
unless its impression is made upon the brain ; hence the key 
to expression consists in understanding what you read. 

A future number will contain directions for the remedy of 
unmanageable voices. — F. Lizzie Peirce, 



The Crowning of the Sunday-School Angel. 

MUSICAL DIALOGUE WITH TABLEAU. 
CHARACTERS. 

The Guard, ....... Gentleman, 

The Angel of Order, 

The Angel of Literature, 

The Angel of Music, !^ Ladies. 

The Angel of Love, 

The Angel of the Word of God. 

^ A small boy. 
Two Ragged Children, > 

J A little girl. 

A Chorus of Sunday-school Scholars. 
Preparations. — A large Gothic chair raised 07ie step or more 
from the floor of the pulpit for a throne, A crown (inade of 
pasteboard and covered with gold paper will answer)^ placed on 



THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCIWOL ANGEL. 



89 



the top of the chair, A scepter is needed. The ladies taking the 
pa7'ts should be dressed in white ; they may each wear a long 
flowing veil of illusion or other light material, zvith star on the 
forehead. The veil shotdd not cover the face ^ but fall back over 
the shoulders. 

The Guard shoidd zvear a Knight Templar or other suitable 
tmiform, and shoidd take charge of and guard the throne before 
Order presents herself. 

The Angel of Order {comes up the aisle, with a bell or some 
emblem of order in her hand, and ascending the pulpit advances 
towards the throne and addresses the Guard as follozvs) : 

I am the Angel of Order; " Order is heaven's first law," — a 
glorious law, seen in those beauteous isles of light that come 
and go, as circling months fulfil their high behest. Nor less 
on earth discerned mid rocks snow-clad or wastes of herbless 
sand. 

Throughout all climes, beneath all varying skies, fixing for 
e'en the smallest flower that blooms, its place of growth. 

I am the child of beauty and wisdom. My attendants are 
comfort, neatness, and activity. I come to be the angel of the 
Sunday-school. Let me occupy this throne and issue my 
decrees, and confusion will be unknown ; officers, teachers and 
scholars shall be under my control. 

All the regulations essential to a proper conducting of the 
school shall be enforced. Punctuality in attendance, propriety 
in behavior, attention to instruction, and obedience to rules 
shall be insisted upon. I will have a place for everything, and 
everything shall be in its place. 

Guard {replies^. — Angel of Order, I welcome thee ; what 
thou hast said is true ; what would this universe be without 



gQ THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL ANGEL. 

thy mighty presence? Were thy power aboh'shed but for d 
moment, "the war of elements, the wreck of matter and the 
crush of worlds " would be the immediate and inevitable result. 
Thou art needed everywhere, and we must have thee in our 
school, but thou canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school. 
Stand here upon the right of the throne (conducts her to the 
right of the throne). 

The Angel of Literature {comes up the aisle with Sooks, 
papers and tracts in her hand, ascending the pidpit, advances 
toward the throne, and addresses the Guard as follows^ : 

I am the Angel of Literature. The written thoughts and 
emotions of men constitute my domain. The pen and thf r press 
are the instruments of my progress, and are mightier than the 
sword. I, too, am an applicant for this throne. Give me 
authority and I will supply the school with books and papers, 
with leaves and tracts, — of these there shall be no lack. The 
library shall be replenished from time to time with entertain- 
ing, instructive and religious volumes, — well bound and beau- 
tiful. And all will be glad for my presence and rejoice in my 
power {advances tozvard the throne^. 

Guard {replies). — Angel of Literature, I greet thee also with 
pleasure. Thy sphere is a noble one, and thy mission worthy. 
The mind must be stored with knowledge and stimulated with 
truth. It is thine to impart information and administer cul- 
ture, — to aid in the education of our race. We give thee a 
place in our school, but cannot crown thee as its Ruling Angel. 
Stand here upon the left {leads her to the left of the throne). 

The Angel of Music {comes up the aisle starting from the 
vestibule of the church, having in her hand a harp^ or other 
instrumeJit, and a roll of music, singing) : 



i 



THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL AiXGKL. g i 
Solo, ly Angel of Music. 



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singing round the bright eternal throne, The great white throne of God. 



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THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y-SCHOOL ANGEL. 



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Of our Saviour cru-ci-fied, Eound the great white throne of God. 



From the New Silver Sonp, by permission of W. W. Whitney. 

The Angel of Music (advances toward the Guard, and 
addresses him 'as follows) : 

I am the Angel of Music. Melody and Harmony are my 
children. I open my mouth in song and my voice trembles 
with sweet sounds. I touch the keys of the instrument and 
the air is full of delightful strains. I give strength to the 
weak ; encourage the wavering ; cheer the sick, and assist in 
the triumph of the dying. I make heaven jubilant with anthems 
of praise. My voice is heard on earth in the lullabys of the 
nursery, in the songs of childhood, in the hymns of the sanc- 
tuary and in the ballads of the nation. My power is felt by 
the refined and the savage. 

Let me be the ruling angel of the Sumlay-school. I will 
furnish each department with an organ. I will teach all to 
sing. The tunes and the time shall be perfect, and no discord 
shall be heard amid the blended notes. Books of music shall 
be in abundance and all hearts shall thrill with gladness. 



Chorus hy the School. 



lorus oy me ocnooi. , 



We love to sing to-geth - er, we love to sing to-getb - er, Our 



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95 



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Copyrighted, 1859, in Oriola, by W. B. Bradbury ; 
used by permission of BiGiiOW & Main. 



Guard {replies). — Angel of Music, I have listened to thy son^, 
and its sweetness has captivated my soul. Surely thy work is 
sublime and thy influence great. 

** Music the fierest grief can charm. 
And fate's severest rage disarm ; 



94 THE CR O WNING OF THE S UN DA V-SCHO OL ANGEL. 

Music can soften pain to ease, 
And make despair and madness please; 
Our joys below it can improve, 
And antedate the bliss above." 



We cheerfully assign thee a place in our midst, but thou 
canst not be the Supreme Angel of the school {leads Iter to the 
right of the throne). 

The Angel of Love {comes up the aisle leading a little boy 
and girl, each wearing a loose, ragged garment that can he easily 
thrown off. She advances toward the Guard and addresses him 
as follows^ : 

I am the Angel of Love. I dwell in the bosom of God and 
in the hearts of men. Heaven is the scene of my highest mani- 
festation, but I breathe benedictions on the earth. I relieve the 
needy and cheer the disconsolate with words and deeds of 
sympathy. The light of my smile kindles a radiance in many 
dark places of sorrow. My scepter subdues the hardest heart, 
and my speech often wins the prodigal back to his father's 
house. I make home happy and bless the church with pros- 
perity. I am a candidate for this throne. Give m^e place, 
and I will cause with magic power springs of happiness to 
rise, and flowers of social delight to bloom in the pathway of 
all ; the aged and the young shall alike rejoice, and the entire 
school shall witness how good and pleasant it is to dwell together 
in unity. Besides this, I will go out into the highways and 
hedges, into the lanes and alleys ; visit the abodes of the poor 
and the haunts of ignorance, and will gather the children in 
-that they may be enriched with the treasures of grace, and 
made wise unto salvation. 



THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y- SCHOOL ANGEL 
QUAETETTE. 



95 




Gather them in, gather them in , 






Gather the chil-dren in. 

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Copyrighted, 1861, in Golden Chain, by W. B. Bradbuky; 
used by permission of Biglow & Main. 



Guard. — Angel of Love, fairest daughter of the skies, thy 
smile is radiant with blessing, and thy coming is ever a bene- 
diction. Without thee, this world would be a wilderness, drear 
and cold, where naught but cruelty and sorrow would abound. 
Truly thou art welcome. Let thy voice be heard and thy power 
be felt among us. Bind our hearts together with a threefold 
cord which cannot be broken, and may the glory of thy presence 
surround us ever as with a halo ; but to thee, as to all who 
have preceded thee, I am compelled to say, thy place is not 
upon the throne, as the ruling angel of the Sunday-school. 
Guard {leads her to the left, beside the Angel of Literature ; the 
boy and girl during the singing having throzvn off their ragged 
garments^ take their places 07ie on each side of her). 

The Angel of the Word of God {comes up the aisle, carry- 
ing a Bible in her arms^ and advancing toward the Guards 
addresses him as follows^: 

1 am the Angel of the Word of God ; Order is indispensible. 
Literature is needed. Music is to be desired. Love must ever 
abide. Each has her place and her work, but higher than all, 
and the inspirer of all, is the Bible. I come as the lamp of 
truth to a benighted woi'ld ; the bearer of intelligence from the 
throne of God — a revelation to men of duty and destiny. I 
come as the chart and compass to guide men safely over the 



THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y- SCHOOL ANGEL. g>^ 

Jea of life to the desired haven. My mission is to instruct 
both adults and children in the way of holiness that leads to 
heaven. I teach the sublime truths of faith and salvation — of 
God and immortality. 

Wherever I go, the wilderness and solitary places are glad 
for me, and the deserts rejoice and blossom as the rose. 

If all would heed my v/ords and partake of my spirit, the 
whole world would soon recover the charms of Eden. 

Instead of sin and misery, there would be everywhere purity 
and bHss. I come to train these children and youth in the 
ways of piety, and develop in them the elements of true man- 
hood and womanhood ; to qualify them for usefulness here, 
and blessedness hereafter. I wish to be crowned the angel 
of the Sunday-school. 

Guard. — Angel of the Word of God, All Hail ! A thousand 
welcomes. For thee we have waited long and rejoice in thy 
coming. Thou hast said well — Order is indispensible. Liter- 
ature is needed. Music is to be desired. Love must ever 
abide. These are thy handmaids and shall remain with us, 
but thou shalt be supreme. Ascend the throne (she takes her 
place on the throne). On thy head I put this crown. In thy 
hand I place this scepter. Rule thou over us. Fill our minds 
with thy wisdom, our hearts with thy spirit, that our lives may 
show forth the praise of Him who created us, and redeemed us 
h ' the blood of His Son. Order, Literature, Music, Love, 
tl 2se shall assist thee, and our School shall be a Bible School, 
I :ou art the Angel of the Sunday-school ! 

TABLEAU. 

The Guard. — {Standing immediately in front of the throne^ 

will sheath his sword, take off his hat, and say) : 

Order, Literature, Music, Love, let us bow in token of our 
7 



98 



THE CROWNING OF THE SUNDA Y- SCHOOL ANGEL. 



submission to the Word of God. {They all kneel and the Angel 
of the Word of God holds the Bible out on her hand while the 
school rises and sings) : 



Full Chorus. 



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From the Sabbath Bell, No, 1, by permission of 
BiQLOw & Main owners of Copyright. 

CURTAIN. 

Rev. D, W. GoBDow. 



* The Calls of the Bells. 

[Represent bell tones with the voice upon the italicized troitJs,] 

" In union and in freedom dwell/** 
Peals forth a brave, time-honored bell. 
** To all proclaim sweet liberty 
Throughout the land — the land is free ! " 
In the tower let it cheerily swing, 
And make the whole world hear it ring 
" The tyrants knell, the knell, the knell** 
It is the Independence Bell. 

At dawn of day, to break the spell 
Of sleep, the watchman rings a bell. 
The 'rough bell in the dusky tower. 
With rude tongue calls the signal hour. 
Oh, how it rings, and swings and clangs^ 
Shaking the old roof where it hangs ! 
The sound foretells , foretells , foretells 
The toils that follow morning bells. 



* Published by special permission from the author. 



jOO THE CALLS OF THE BELLS, 

In ringing notes that rise and swell. 
In startling sharpness sounds a bell. 
To boys and girls, it seems to speak 
Of German, Latin, French and Greek ; 
The lads and lassies know it well, 
It is the famed Academy bell. 
Read well, think well, learn well, do weU^ 
In haste exclaims the scholars' bell. 

In stout hands, jangling as it fell, 
Near a white apron rang a bell. 
Its tones are sounds that all may know, 
It gives the languid pulse a glow, 
It tinkles, jingles, rings and sings, 
And talks of sweet and savory things,. 
The roast, the broil and on the sheU, 
It is the dinner bell, " sweet-bell." 

A great white sheet in silence fell, 
Followed by the tinkling of a bell. 
How wide and white the snow-lit scene I 
Wrapped in warm furs two lovers lean, 
Bringing their beating hearts so near, 
Responsive throbbings they might hear^ 
And the fond story that love tells, 
But for the bells, sleigh bells, sleigh belK 

Sweet music comes from hill and dell* 
A charm of sound from a sweet bell; 
In softest harmony the tones 
Ring in the sweetest honey-moons. 



THE CALLS OF THE BELLS, iqi 

May no harsh speech come from the Hps 
To shade the fair moon with eclipse. 
Its melody in love-tones tells 
Of bride and groom and wedding bells. 

From far and near, where virtue dwells, 
There comes the sound of sacred bells, 
Soft choral chimes, one day in seven : 
Voices of love from the vast heaven. 
Their varied tones in sweetness blend, 
And like a psalm of praise ascend. 
And each glad heart in rapture swells^ 
Responsive to the Sabbath Bells. 

Flaming Hke lurid light of hell, 

Startled at midnight by the bell, 

Oh, merciless, disastrous fire. 

That spreads and rises, higher, higher, higher! 

Crackhng in speech like flames in fir. 

That needs not the interpreter. 

The thrilling ^varning peals and swells ^ 

It is the fire alarm of bells. 

There comes at last a saddening knell, 
Startling our sluggish souls. The bell 
Reminds us of the close of time. 
And warns us with its solemn chime. 
E'en the sad bell seems short of breath. 
When tolling in slow tones of death ! 
Let's hope that all is welly is well 
When tolls at last the funeral bell. 

— Ge0, W, Bungay. 



Dorothy Clyde; 

OR, 

The Squire's Daughter. 

a comedy in two acts. 

characters: 
Barton Clyde, a country squire. 
Leslie Raymore, a clerk. 
Morley Dingle, a rich man's son. 
Caleb Weatherspout, an old bachelor, 
Dorothy, the Squire's daughter. 
Mrs. Felton, a poor widow. 
Em'ly, her only child, 
Parthenia Philp, an heiress. 
Mercy, her maid. 

masqueraders. 
Scene: A Pennsylvania village. 
Time: The present. 

Act I. Interior of widow's cottage. 
Act II. The masquerade. 

Costumes : For first act — modern. For second act — Squire, 
sailor; Raymore, Chinese ; Dingle, knight; Weatherspout 
m,onk ; Dorothy, gypsy ; Mrs. Felton, ghost ; Em ly, peasant ; 
Miss Philp, duchess ; Mercy, French maid. Masqueraders to 
suitfancy. 

Act I. 

Scene : Interior of widow Felton' s cottage. Table, C. Rock~ 
ing-chair, L. C. Door Pract, in F., windows, etc. Time, morn- 
ing. Mrs. Felton discovered seated in rocking-chair ; Em'ly 
standing R. facing L. 
I02 



DOROTHY CLYDE. X03 

Em'ly.— Mother, I was never so insulted in my life ; she 
threw the dress on her toilet stand, and fairly ground her teeth 
with rage. 

Mrs. Felton. — Dear ! dear ! dear ! what shall we do ! I 
depended on the money for making that dress to pay at least a 
month's rent. Did you explain our distressed condition to 
Miss Philp ? 

Em'ly. — Mother, dear, I did my best to reason with her, but 
she only stamped her foot, and bade me hold my saucy tongue. 
She said the dress was ruined. 

Mrs. Felton. — Our lot is indeed hard. What a dreadful 
misfortune my sickness has proved to be. 

Em'ly. — Dorothy Clyde stopped me on the road opposite 
the mill ; she saw that my eyes were red, and pressed me so 
hard that I made a clean breast of the whole matter. She said 
she would be over about ten o'clock with her father, the 
Squire. 

Mrs. Felton. — Oh, if your poor, dear papa had only lived, 
how different our lot would be to-day. Alas ! I fear we shall 
soon be homeless. 

Em'ly {Kneels at her side). — Do not give way to such 
gloomy thoughts ; God has promised to care for the widow 
and the fatherless ; let us trust in His goodness. 

Mrs. Felton. — My child, your mother is justly rebuked. 
We will trust in the Lord, come what may. 

\_K7tock at the door."] 

Em'ly (Rises and opens door). — Oh ! walk in. Miss Philp. 

{Enter Miss Philp and Mercy, the latter bearing a bundle') 

Miss Philp. — Walk in ! Do you suppose I would run in, 
crawl in or creep in ? Walk in ! Of course I'll walk in, and 
when I am ready, I shall walk out again. Humph ! 



I04 DOROTHY CLYDE. 

Mrs. Felton. — Em'ly, dear, give the lady a chair. Pray be 
seated, Miss Philp. 

Miss Philp {Dusts the chair with her handkerchief^. — I think 
I shall stand. 

Em'ly. — The chairs are perfectly clean, Miss Philp ; I care- 
fully dusted them early this morning. 

Miss Philp. — I prefer to stand, however. 

Mrs. Y^iJio^ {To Mercy). — Sit down, Mercy. 

Mercy. — Thank you. {Attempts to sit on chair.) 

Miss Philp. — Stop ! how dare you sit when your mistress is 
standing ! Place that bundle on the table ; such brazen con- 
duct is intolerable. And as for you, madam, you have not only 
ruined my robe, but you have prevented my attendance at the 
ball to-night. 

Mrs. Felton. — Mercy ! 

Mercy {starts). — Eh ? 

Mrs. Felton. — It was merely an ejaculation. {To Miss 
Philp). — I deeply regret having incurred your displeasure. 

Em'ly. — Perhaps we can remedy the defect if it is but trifling • 
it is yet early in the day. 

Mercy {Places bundle on table). — Why yes ; I will open it 
{Beghts to untie bundle}) 

Mrs. Felton. — That's it ; how stupid we are. 

Miss Philp. — Don't include me ; I am not willing to be 
classified with dolts. 

Em'ly. — Oh, dear, no ! 

Mrs. Felton. — I meant no offense. 

Mercy {Takes dress from paper). — Look at it, Mrs, Felton. 

Miss Philp. — Silence ! Stop talking all together like quack- 
ing ducks ; your din will drive me distracted. Have you no 
refinement, no breeding ? How I dislike to mingle with vulgar 
persons. Young woman, ah, that is, Em'ly, hold up that dress. 



DORO Til V CL YDE. j 05 

Em'ly (Takes up dress). — Yes, miss. 

Miss Philp. — Just try it on, so that I may show your mother 
her stupid work. 

Mrs. Felton. — Pardon me, but — 

Miss Philp. — Silence ! I am talking. 

Mercy {Aside). — Shame upon you, you spitfire ! 

Em'ly {Putting on dress). — I am sure we can fix it in time 
for this evening. 

Mercy {Assisting Em'ly). — How well you become fine 
clothes ; you were intended to be a lady. Just see what a 
gracefial figure. 

Miss Philp. — Ridiculous ; the idea ! Why the girl looks 
like a jointed doll. 

Mrs. Felton. — Em'ly, dear, hold still. 

Em'ly {Raises dress to her eyes). — ^Mother — 

Miss Philp. — Here, don't wipe your eyes on that dress, if 
you please. 

Em'ly. — Mother, I do not think it womanly in Miss Philp to 
thus take advantage of our reverse in fortune. 

Mrs. Felton. — There, there, Em'ly ! Never mind, let me 
examine the dress. Where is the fault. Miss Philp ? 

Miss Philp. — The sleeves are too long, the neck is too 
small, and the skirt is too short. 

Mrs. Felton. — Alas! I fear it is spoiled. My mind has 
been so burdened with trouble that I am beside myself. 

Mercy. — It fits Em'ly to perfection. 

Em LY. — How can we ever pay you for the material ? What 
shall we do ? 

Miss Philp. — Madam, what is your bill for making this 
dress ? 

Mrs. Felton. — I sent you the bill. 

Miss Philp. — Ah, yes, I recollect. {Draws bill from pocket 



I06 DOROrilY CLYDE. 

and reads') " To making dress, twelve dollars." Well, it is oi 
no use to me ; you may keep it — take the dress and receipt 
the bill. 

Mrs. Felton. — But our rent — if we do not pay something 
to-day we may be turned out into the world, homeless. 

Miss Philp. — I am not a charity visitor ; you should study 
economy. Ahem ! Mercy, follow me. \Exits door F. followed 
by Mercy'\ 

Mrs. Felton. — My child, my child ! (They embrace and 
stand weeping) \Enter Squire aiid Dorothy ; they pause and 
observe Mrs. Felton and Em'ly^ 

Squire (Aside). — This is, indeed, a tableau. (Aloud) Ladies I 

Mrs. Felton. — 1 / o^ a r\u % 
Em'ly.- \ {Start) OM 

Dorothy {Taking their hands). — Why are you weeping ? 
Papa will fix things all right. Do not worry. 

Squire. — Mrs. Felton, your husband was a man whom I 
esteemed highly. He at one time rendered me a valuable ser- 
vice, and it is but common gratitude that I now befriend his 
family. Here is a check for double the amount of all arrears 
of rent due on your cottage. (Hands her check) Accept it as 
a loan until you are able to return it. 

Mrs. Felton. — I could not think of it. 

Squire. — You must 1 

Dorothy. — Take it for my sake ; do not refuse ; take it and 
welcome. 

Mrs. Felton. — Oh, what kindness ! 

Em'ly (Kisses Dorothy on forehead). — My own, dear Dorothy. 

Squire. — Now for a little talk on another subject. Be seated. 
(All take chairs) Mrs. Felton, you are aware that I am agent for 
the Dingle estate, of which your cottage is a part. I have long 
acted in that capacity as a matter of courtesy to my old friend. 



DOROTHY CL YDE, joy 

Caspar Dingle. I shall look after his property no longer, 
Mrs. Felton. — No doubt it is a great annoyance to you — 
Squire. — Not at all. Listen. I am rich, and my friend 
Dingle, in order to augment his already immense estate, desires 
his son Morley to become the husband of my daughter. 

Dorothy {Confused^. — Oh, papa, how can you talk of that 
horrid young man ! You know I detest his very name. 

Squire. — My dear child, if you will allow me to talk, I can 
easily show you the necessity of taking these ladies into our 
confidence. 

Dorothy.— Pardon me, papa, dear ; although I have never 
met Mr. Morley Dingle, yet from your description of his inter- 
view with you, I am sure he is very rude and ill-bred. 

Squire.— True. Now in order that he may have a pretext 
for visiting our village, he will in future collect his rents in 
person. He will be here to-day, perhaps may now be on his 
way to your cottage. 

Mrs. Felton. — 1 am. i • 

Em'lv.- I Oh, horrors! 

Squire. — You have my check. 

Mrs. Felton. — True, true, kind sir ; I had for the moment 
fogotten it. 

Squire. — Morley Dingle knows that my daughter has a 
generous nature and abhors meanness in any guise ; therefore, 
he would act his best were he introduced to her. I prefer 
Dorothy should see him in his ordinary character. 

Dorothy. — And how can I, papa ? 

Squire. — He will call here for the rent. He knows Mrs. 
Felton is largely indebted. Ladies, my plan is this : You and 
I will take a walk in the grove back of the cottage. Dorothy 
will remain and represent herself to be Em'ly; she can promise 



i08 DOROTHY CLYDE. 

the rent within a week; plead for time, anything, so that his 
manliness may be thoroughly tested. 

Dorothy. — No, no, papa ! 

Squire. — Take off your hat, throw an old shawl over your 
shoulders. {Points tJirongh window^ See! there he comes. 
Let us be off. 

Em'ly (Aside). — I wish I could stay and peep. 

Mrs. Felton. — I hope he will not be cross to the dear child— 

Squire. — Come, quick! \Exit all except Dorothy 1\ 

Dorothy (Hurriedly searching). — What can I get ? {picks up 
apron) Ah, this will do ! (removes hat) I hear his footstep on 
the gravel walk. (Listens) Gracious, how my heart beats ! 

[Loud knock at the door^ 
I wish papa was here. [Prolonged knock.'\ 

Well, he can't eat me, anyhow. (Opens door) 

[Enter Dingle?^ 

Dingle (Surveying Dorothy through eye-glasses). — Ah ! 1 
presume you are the daughter of the, ah — 

Dorothy. — Yes, sir ; I am the daughter. 

Dingle. — Is it possible 1 

Dorothy. — Sir, will you be seated ? 

Dingle (Aside).- — What airs these poor creatures assume. 
(Aloud) Miss, (takes card from case) this will probably explain 
both who I am and the nature of my business. 

Dorothy (Takes card and reads aloud) — " Morley Dingle, 
Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsylvania, (aside) Dingle, 
dong, dingle — (Aloud) I am not prepared to pay you any- 
thing to-day, Mr. Dingle. There has been very little money 
earned in this house since the last payment was made. 

Dingle (Sits on a chair and puts feet on table) — You must 
settle with me before I leave this village, or give up the house, 
(pulls book from pocket). Let me see; yes, here it is — Felton — 



DOROTHY CLYDE. 



100 



March, April, May, June — twelve dollars a month, just forty- 
eight dollars. What do you take me for ? 

Dorothy {Aside). — How I would like to tell you. {Aloud) 
O sir, if you but knew the sufferings of the poor I am sure 
your sympathy would guide your action. 

Dingle. — Not a bit of it. The laws of this State protect the 
defenseless landlord more effectively than any other govern- 
ment on the globe — except Ireland. I'm proud that I am a 
Pennsylvanian. 

Dorothy. — Surely, sir, you would not invoke the law to 
distress a poor widow and her child ? 

Dingle. — John Felton signed a lease giving me the right to 
sell all his effects for any arrears of rent due upon this house. 

Dorothy. — Does not the law exempt a certain amount of 
household chattels ? 

Dingle. — John Felton waived the benefit of the exemption 
law. 

Dorothy. — But he is dead. 

Dingle. — Young woman, his family must suffer the conse- 
quences of his act. 

Dorothy {Indignantly). — This is unjust ; it is contrary to the 
letter and spirit of the law. 

• Dingle {Looking through eyeglass). — You talk like a member 
of the bar ; that is, a country member — a squire. 

Dorothy. — The exemption law was enacted as a merciful 
barrier against the sweeping tide of adversity — a life-boat for 
h-;lpless castaways : how then dare any man's hand thwart the 
law and defeat its purpose ? To waive that law repeals it : is 
this an absolute monarchy ? 

Dingle. — This government is run upon a solid cash basis: 
if you have cash, you can smile at waivers. The remedy, 
young woman, is cash. That's my prescription for landlords' 



i;iO DOROTHY CL YDE. 

warrants ; it's a powerful antidote. (Taps his pocket and 

laughs). 

Dorothy. — You shock me, sir; you fill me ^with alarm ; 
would you strip us of these poor household necessities. 

Dingle. — I am a benefactor to women. If I see they have 
no possibility of keeping house I resort to heroic measures — 
I sell 'em out. What's the result ? They get situations, get 
plenty to eat and comfortable quarters. 

Dorothy. — And the little children ? 

Dingle {Pulls out watch). — It is time to end this nonsense. 
Have the rent by to-night. Good morning, \_Extt door F?^ 

Dorothy {Sits in chair). — So that's the suitor for my heart 
and hand ! Whew ! 

\Enter Squire^ followed by Mrs. Felton and EmHy\. 

Squire {Pointing with cane). — There he goes ! Look at him ; 
see how pompously he struts ; observe the elevation of his 
nose ! \All look towards window^. Take care ! down he goes ! 
[All laugh boisterously]. 

Dorothy.' — Poor fellow, I wonder if he is hurt ! 

Em'ly — His hat is completely demolished. 

Mrs. Felton. — Rather a bad fall. 

Squire. — Off he starts again. There goes the strut — up goes 
the nose — the lesson is lost. {To Mrs. Felton) Madam, now 
that we have arranged for the masquerade, banish your sor- 
rows : forget the trials of the day in the pleasures of the even- 
ing. Your daughter knows her part well ; she will personate 
Dorothy in her conversation with Dingle, until all unmask. 

Dorothy. — And my voice will convince him that I am hia 
delinquent tenant. 

Em'ly. — Dorothy, dear, do you really think Miss Philp will 
not recognize this dress ? 

Dorothy. — She will be too eager to be seen by Morley 



DORO THY CL YDE. 1 1 1 

Dingle, Esquire, to even waste a thought on the toilet of any 
one save her precious self. \All listen^ 

Weatherspout (From without). — This way, Leslie, this 
way ; I've not forgotten the art of climbing rail fences, even if 
I am seventy-five. 

Squire. — My old friend Weatherspout, as I live ! 

[Enter Weatherspout']. 

Weatherspout (Pausing onthe threshold). I — I — beg pardon! 

Squire. — Come in, my long-tried friend. 

Weatherspout. — The door was open and it seemed kind o* 
natural to walk right in — so Leslie and — (turning to door) 
why, I thought he came in ! We have just helped ourselves 
to a draught of your delicious spring water. 

Em'ly (Goes to door). — Come in, Leslie. 

\_Enter Leslie Raymore^ 

Leslie. — Pardon my intrusion, ladies ; I assure you I had 
no idea you were engaged. 

Mrs. Felton. — You are welcome. 

Dorothy. — 1 ^^ , 

-p , > No apology IS necessary. 

Weatherspout. — Ladies, Mr. Ray more has been in my em- 
ployment for a number of years ; in fact, since his boyhood 
I have every confidence in his honor and integrity. 

Squire. — We all know Leslie, and every one is acquainted 
with you, Mr. Weatherspout : and it is exceedingly gratifying 
to hear of the cordial relations which exist between two such 
worthy men— but you were about to say — • 

Weatherspout.— I was about to remark that I have come 
here solely for the purpose of attending the masquerade ball 
to-night. 

X-ESLIE. — Mr. Weatherspout has stated the fact. I showed him 
the invitation from Squire Clyde, and he gave me permission 



J J 2 DOKO Tli Y CL YDE. 

to accept only on condition that I would allow him to accom- 
pany me. 

Squire, — Which I take as a high compliment to myself, 
and shall do all in my power to make you remember the hos- 
pitalities of Clyde Hall. \_All make show of conversing?^ 

Dorothy {To Leslie), — I am so glad you have come. 

Leslie. — I am more than glad ; I cannot express my hap- 
piness. 

Dorothy. — And papa wrote his consent — were you not sur- 
prised ? 

Leslie. — No, Dorothy, love ; your father is sensible, and 
judges a man by his personal worth rather than by the weight 
of his purse. 

Dorothy. — You have told no one ? 

Leslie — Only my employer. 

Dorothy. — You rogue ! No wonder he came with you. 

Squire. — Yes, yes ; that is so, we had better go to the man- 
sion. Mrs. Felton, we will depart. Recollect, Em'ly, until we 
unmask you are Dorothy Clyde — that is, to Morley Dingle. 
Good day, ladies. \All exit except Mrs. Felton and Em'lyi\ 

Mrs. Felton. — Em'ly, my child, God is good. Something 
seems to tell me that there are better days in store for us. 

Em'ly — Let us hope, mother; {takes her hand) my heart, too, 
seems lighter. 

Mrs. Felton. — We will hope. 

[curtain.] 
End of the first act. 



Act II. 
Scene : Interior of Clyde Hall. Seats arranged at wings. 
Door pract. in Flat, through which fiowers are visible. Em'ly 
md Dingle discovered standing C. Both are masked. 



DOROTHY CL YDE. 1 1 3 

Dingle. — By yonder fair moon whose radiance is reflected 
in a thousand dewy gems ; by the glorious splendors of this 
summer night, I adjure you to remove that mask. 

Em'ly. — Sir Knight, if eloquence could tempt me to reveal 
my face before the proper time, then your words would win 
your wish. I am not what you think I am. Knights woo not 
poor peasant maids, and I am poor, and humble, too. 

Dingle. — The wealth of those bright eyes would make one 
rich though he were a beggar. 

Em'ly. — Flattery from friends is at best embarrassing ; 
from strangers it is wholly out of place. 

Dingle (Aside). — There's no humbleness in that remark. 
{Aloud) I crave your forgiveness ; I am the last man in the 
world who would do an ungallant act. 

Em'ly {Aside). — You are among the latest who did. {Aloud) 
Are you always mindful of a woman's feelings ? Do you treat 
them all with gentle courtesy? 

Dingle {Aside). — There's a little sarcasm in that ; I wonder 
what she means ? {Aloud) Certainly ! I would scorn, loathe, 
abhor a man who could forget his duty in that regard. 

Em'ly. — Even though she owed him money ? 

Dingle. — Eh! {Aside) What is she driving at? {Aloud) 
Miss Clyde, you are severe. 

Em'ly. — If any one designated me as Miss Clyde they erred. 
Once more I repeat that I am not Dorothy Clyde. 

Dingle {Laughs). — We will not discuss that point. I have 
danced with you twice to-night, and I have danced with no 
one else ; and yet I have had the honor of twice dancing with 
the lady whose name you mentioned. 

Em'ly. — The music has ceased. The guests will come this 
WF.y. Excuse me. \Exits hastily Z.] 

Dingle {Looking L). — O Jupiter, what a beauty! How 



114 



DOROTHY CLYDE. 



lightly she trips across the hall. Sweet Dorothy, thou hast 
won my heart. \_Enter Dorothy R^ 

But why does she persist in denying her identity ? A servant 
volunteered to point out both her and the Felton girl ; she 
evidently desires to — 

Dorothy {Coughs). 

Dingle (Aside). — The tenant's daughter. I would recognize 
that haughty minx though she were doubly masked. 

Dorothy. — Pardon me, sir ; I would inquire the way to the 
banquet room. 

Dingle (Aside). — It will never do to let her recognize m^. 
voice ; I will assume a falsetto tone. (Aloud) You had better 
find a servant, Miss Gypsy Queen ; I am not posted in the 
commissary department. 

Dorothy. — I perceive that all knights are not Quixotes in 
gallantry. Thanks, however, for your suggestion. 

Dingle (Sarcastic bow). — Don't mention it, fair fortune- 
teller. 

Dorothy. — If you knew me you would try to be more cour- 
teous; thus have you unmasked your nature, though your 
face is still unseen. \_Exit Z.] 

Dingle. — The saucy beggar ! Well, in some natures poverty 
serves to intensify pride ; I will seek the Squire. (Exits R.) 

(Enter Weatherspout and Miss Philp, Door F. ; she leans upon 
his arm?) 

Weatherspout. — The night is lovely ; years and years ago 
it was my delight to wander forth beneath the moon's soft 
rays — 

Miss Philp. — Years and years ago! There! you talk like 
a sexagenarian. I will wager you what you will that you 
are under twenty-five ! Aye, that I know your name ! 

Weatherspout. — In a few minutes the guests will assemble 



DOROTHY CL YDE. i j j 

and unmask; if you guess my name I will anticipate that 
ceremony. Can you not detect the tremor of age in my voice? 

Miss Phtlp {Aside).^ — The servant volunteered to tell me 
this man's name. He is merely assuming the ancient quaver. 
His form is as straight as a pin oak. {Aloud) My eyes are not 
deceived, Mr. Morley Dingle. 

Weatherspout. — Not knowing the party for whom you 
take me, I am unable to rate the value of your compliment. 

Miss Phil? (Aside). — It is Dingle, sure ! {Aloud) Then, 
holy Monk, be my father confessor and learn that Mr. Morley 
Dingle is a perfect Adonis, a gentleman of rare attainments, 
one whose name any woman would be proud to— to — that is— 
include among her list of friends. 

Weatherspout.— Or read upon her teaspoons— I compre- 
hend. 

Miss Philp. — Of course I speak from hearsay only; I have 
not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman ; 
although I think I have enjoyed his company this evening. 

Weatherspout.— My child, you are mistaken ; I am not 
Dingle. I am glad for your sake that you are deceived. You 
will also be satisfied when you have reflected upon the matter. 

Miss Philp {Angrily). — Do you know to whom you are talk- 
ing ? 

Weatherspout. — Candidly, I do not. 

Miss Philp {Aside). — I see ; he fears I will penetrate his 
disguise. {Aloud) Oh, you are deep, very deep. 

Weatherspout {Offering his ami). — Permit me to escort 
you to the drawing-room. 

Miss Philp {Takes his arm). — What a dreamy, soul-inspir- 
ing night. 

Weatherspout ( \ awning). — Very. [ They exit Z.7 

Squire {From without). — I will tell you. Step this way. 



1 1 6 DOROTHY CL YDS. 

{Enter Squire and Leslie R., each holding mask in hand) Know-, 
ing that Dingle was anxious to identify my daughter, and that 
Miss Philp was dying to meet Dingle, I instructed a trusty 
servant to mislead them by making certain remarks within 
their hearing. The thing has worked like a charm, and the 
most ludicrous blunders have resulted. 

Leslie. — I thought that Dorothy was unusually interested 
in the movements of certain couples. So the little rogue is a 
party to your conspiracy ! 

Squire. — The motive justifies the means ; I desire to reclaim 
an arrogant young man and a silly woman ; both are difficult 
cases, yet I hope to succeed. 

Leslie. — Some one is calling — hark ! 

M.iB.-RCY {Without). — Quick! quick! Squire, quick ! (^;2^^ri 
L. running) Oh ! oh ! oh — I 

Squire. — Speak, girl, what is amiss ? 

Mercy.— Oh, sir, you wouldn't joke if you knew the trouble 
It may end in bloodshed ! 

Sv^aiRE. — Who's joking ? 

Mercy. — You asked me a conundrum. 

Squire. — Never ! 

Mercy. — You asked me what is a miss — every girl know.' 
what a miss is. [Exits R. running^ 

Leslie. — The girl is mixed. [Leslie and Squire mask.'] 

Dingle ( Without). — You shall apologize or fight. {Entef 
L.) Ah, here are gentlemen who will see fair play. Come on. 
sir, come on ! [Enter Weatherspout Z.] 

Weatherspout. — Silence ! Give me a chance to explain. 

Dingle {Drawing sword). — Retract, sir! Eat your words! 
{Flourishes sword) Feast upon them ! Swallow them ! 

"W eatherspout. — Gentlemen, hear him ! His tongue would 
madden an auctioneer with envy. 



DOROTHY CLYDE. 



117 



Dingle. — Ha ! more insults ! Hold me back ! {Makes a 
pass at lVcathcrspo7ct.) Let me dissect him ! 

\_Sq?iire and Leslie take hold of Dingle.'] 

Squire. — Remember where you are! 

Leslie. — Do notliing rash, sir ! 

Weatherspout. — Release him ; I fear his jargon, not his 
blade ; let me explain, and if he then insists on satisfaction, I 
will thrash him with my staff. 

Dingle. — My honor ! (Flowdshes his sword) must I submit 
to this ! 

Squire. — Let the monk speak. 

Weatherspout. — While standing on the porch enjoying the 
cool breeze, my companion, a lady, playfully called me Dingle 
I replied that the air was filled with Dingles, whereupon this 
fellow sprang from behind a bush, and would have throttled 
me, had I not sneezed in his face. 

DiNGLE.-What right had he to mention my name ? 

Squire. — You are a masked knight — how should he know 
you are the champion of one Dingle ? 

Dingle {Aside). — What a donkey I have made of myself. 
{Alotid) Gentlemen, there is a blunder here. Mr. Monk, I ask 
your pardon {Sheathes his szvord). I apologize. 
\E7iter Mrs. Felton D. F. She pauses C^ 

Squire. — Gentlemen, you've raised the dead with your noise. 
Look! 

Weatherspout. — Beg pardon, sir ? 

Leslie. — Were you addressing me ? 

Dingle. — What did you observe, sir? 

Squire. — I say it is a shame when even spirits cannot rest 
\All look at each other for explanation^ 

Dingle. — My dear sir, you've indulged too freely in lobster 
salad ; you've got the nightmare. 



11 8 DORO THY CL YDE. 

Squire {Points at Mrs. Felton). — Brave Sir Knight, look 
over your shoulder. 

Dingle (Turns slowly^ sees Mrs, F., and runs off L.) 

Weatherspout {Same business). 

Leslie. — Well, gentlemen — {Turns and sees Mrs, F.) Ugh! 
(Runs off R.) 

Mrs. Felton {Removing pillow case from head). — Is it 
possible that I am such a hideous object that priests, soldiers 
and brigands flee from my presence ? 

Squire {Removes jnask). — My dear Mrs. Felton, they were 
frightened almost to death before you came; they were longing 
to disperse, and you furnished the excuse. 

Mrs. Felton.— This has been a night of excitement and 
pleasure to the young folks ; to me it has proved a season of 
consternation. One man was so terrified on meeting me in the 
hall that he fell into a tub of egg flip ; another individual 
dropped the arm of his lady-love and ran howling into the 
midst of the dancers. 

Squire. — When the guests behold your face, their fears will 
turn to admiration. 

Mrs. Felton. — Oh, now, really. Squire ! 

Squire. — I have long sympathized with you in your bereave- 
ment ; I have observed your trials and sorrows with positive 
pain ; sympathy often ends in love— 

Mrs. Felton {Aside). — Is he going to propose ? {Aloud) 
Don't, don't, Squire. 

Squire. — I repeat, sympathy often ends in love ; Dorothy 
loves you well. 

Mrs. Felton {Aside). '--^Tioroth.y I {Aloud) She does, I am 
sure. Ahem I 

Squire {Falls on his knee).-^And so does her father, 

{Enter Mercy Z.; she pauses unobsenwd^ 



DOROTHY CLYDE. nC; 

Mrs. Felton (Takes his hand). — ^This is indeed an honor 
Squire. — A true woman is an honor beyond price. I an 

the honored one {Look bashfully at each other). 

Mercy (Aside). — Well, if this isn't the spooniest collection 

of humans I ever was thrown among, then my name's not 

Mercy. (Aloud) Excuse me. 

Squire. — \f(r/ /N Eh ! 

Mrs. Felton.— / ^^^"^^^^ Oh, my ! 

Mercy. — I've lost my mistress and I want to find her. Its 
time to go home. 

Squire. — The masqueraders are coming ; (Mrs. Felton and 
Sqidre masJi) you will soon see your mistresjj. ( Waltz music in 
distance^ to continue until masqueraders enter^ zvhen change to 
vtarcJi') They are now dancing the last waltz. 

Mrs. Felton. — How sweetly the strains of music fall upon 
the ear. 

Squire (Extending his arms). — Do you waltz, my dear 
madam ? 

Mercy. — The idea! 

Mrs. Felton (Retreating). — Oh, no, no, no. 

Mercy. — Here they come ! 

(Sqtdre and Mrs Felto7i take position C. Mercy L» E.) 

Squire. — They come, my dear Mrs. Felton. 

Mrs. Felton. — Yes, they come. 

Squire. — My dear madam, let them come. 

\_E71ter Dingle a?id Enily^ Leslie and Dorothy y Weatherspout 
and Miss Philp, 2 L. E., followed by masqiieraders ; all counter- 
marcJi to music, and take final positions asfollozvs: Dingle and 
Em'ly R. C, Leslie and Dorothy L. C, Weatherspout a7id Miss 
Philp R., masqueraders form semi-circle in rear. 

Squire (Removing mask). — As your host I bid you each and 
all unmask. (All unmask!) 



120 DOROTHY CLYDE. 

Miss Philp {Astonished). — Only look ! {Aside) Old as sin ! 

Squire. — I will first present my daughter. 

Dingle {Bows to Ein'ly). 

Squire. — Ladies and gentlemen {takes Dorothys hand), this 
is Miss Dorothy Clyde {all bow). 

Tiiv^Giss. {Aside). — The widow's daughter! {Aloud to Em!ly) 
Surely, this is a joke; are you not Miss Clyde? 

Dorothy. — No, sir; my name is Dorothy Clyde, and the 
young lady at your side is the one who did not hear your 
gallant views on the subject of arrears of rent. 

Dingle. — Do you mean to say — ? 

Em'ly.— She means to say that I am Em'ly Felton. 

Squire. — And that you are by ho means a stranger to 
Dorothy. 

Miss Philp. — And Mr. Dingle, pray what has become of 
him? 

Squire. — The ladies first. This is Miss Philp, my friends; 
this is Miss Felton, and last, but not least, this is my esteemed 
— ah — that is — my very esteemed friend, her mother. Now, 
Miss Philp, allow me to introduce to your kind consideration 
Mr. Morley Dingle, of Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsyl- 
vania. 

Dorothy {Aside). — Dingle, dong, dingle. 

Dingle. — I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Miss. 

Miss Philp. - -It is such a pleasure to place your name — • 

Weatherspout {Aside). — On your teaspoons, if you could. 

Miss Philp. — Among those of my chosen friends. 

Squire. — Perhaps it would give Mr. Dingle exquisite 
pleasure to escort you home. 

Dingle. — I have already a lady. 

Dorothy (To Di^igle). — Are you going to distrain the house- 
hold chattels ? 



DOROTHY CLYDE. \2\ 

DiNGLK.' —Not with such good collateral security. I was 
TTong. I deeply regret my action. 

Dorothy. — Then the court has reversed its decision ? 

Dingle. — Completely ! The waiver is a fraud. 

Squire. — Ladies and gentlemen, this is my old chum, Caleb 
Weatherspout, and this is my future son-in-law, Leslie Ray- 
more. 

Weatherspout. — Of the firm of Weatherspout & Ray- 
more. 

Miss Philp. — Mercy, get my wrap, quick. 

Mercy. — Must you go home alone ? 

Weatherspout, — Not by any means. I shall see you both 
safely home. 

Miss Philp {Aside). — He -don't look so aged after all. 
\Aloud) How kind, sir. 

Squire, — Now that we have thrown off our masks, let us 
keep then: off. 

Mrs. Fllton. — And let us clasp hands in the light of a 
perfect unaorstanding. 

{All join hands) 

Leslie.— Tl\3 is mainly due to Dorothy Clyde — 

Em'ly {Nods o Doi'othy).—T\i^ Squire's Daughter. 
[Curtain?^ 

— Geo. M. Vickcrs. 



A Dog Story. 

I. 
He was strong and trim, and a good sized cur, 
A gfant of dogs ; with soft silk fur, 
Poised head, of an intellectual size, 
And two straight, luminous hero eyes, 
A tail whose gestures were eloquence ; 
A bark with a germ of common sense. 
And this dog looked, upon the whole, 
As if he had gathered some crumbs of soul 
That fell from the feast God spreads for man — > 
Looked like a line of the human plan. 
There went with his strong, well-balanced stride 
A dignity oft to man denied. 
God's humblest brutes, where'er we turn. 
Are full of lessons for man to learn. 
That night that he crouched by the yielding door* 
And two grim, murderous thieves, or more. 
Had bribed the locks with their hooks of steel. 
He fought with more than a henchman's zeal 
For sleeping loved ones' treasures and life :— 
He conquered rogue, and bullet, and knife. 
That day that he walked by the river's brink, 
Thinking (if certain men can think). 
And saw distress with a quick, sure eye. 
And heard the half-choked drowning cry 
A living life boat, soon he bore 
The half-killed man to a welcome shore. 
And when the wife of the rescued one 
Wept him her love for the great deed done, 
And fondled him in a warm embrace, 
He talked with his honest, kind old face, 

122 



A DOG STORY. 

And said, " I have shown you nothing new ; 

It is what we Hve and love to do. 

In lake or river, in sea or bay, 

My race are rescuers every day ; 

In the snowy gulfs, 'mid hills above 

My race brings life to the race we love.*^ 

II. 
He was sick and reeling — deadly faint ; 
He roamed the streets with a piteous plaint. 
He had lips afoam, and eyes hard set ; 
He asked the mercy of all he met. 
He drearily ran his death-strown race ; 
He found no pity in any face. 
He glanced at an old friend with a moan, 
There came to him back a well-aimed stone. 
No cure for him in his strange distress, 
No tender nursing and kind caress ! 
All fled or fought when he came near ; 
The world seemed mad with rage and fear. 
He searched for an unfrequented way ; 
He would have prayed if a beast could pray. 
For he who man had deified 
Was now all mercy of man denied ; 
He who to save man's life had flown 
Now had to fight man for his own. 

;}j 5jc * * <| 

The soul of the humble brute has fled : 
The grand old dog lies safely dead. 
O, man-like brain, and God-like heart ! 
You were made to carry a noble pari 
What spirit of vile Satanic breed 
Had sowed in your veins the poison-seed 



12 



; 24 EXERCISES IN rRONUWClA TION. 

That turned to a curse your honest breath, — 
That shaped your Hps to a fount of death ? 
Sleep well old friend; your teeth of flame 
Grew not from a soul of vice and shame. 
Sleep well, old saint ; not yours the will 
To plant the world with the germs that kill. 
Not yours the conscious guilt that lies 
In men who ravage with open eyes. 
You did, old dog, the best you knew. 
And that is better than most men do ; 
And if ever I get to the great Just Place 
I shall look iox your honest, kind old face. 

— Will Carleton, 

Exercise in Pronunciation. 

A jocund, sacrilegious son of Belial, who suffered tVom bron- 
chitis, having exhausted his finances at the annual jajst, in order 
to make good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a comely, 
lenient and docile young lady of the Malay or Caucasian 
race. He accordingly purchased a calliope, a coial necklace 
of chameleon hue, and securing a suite of rooms at a hotel, 
he engaged the head waiter as his coadjutor. He then dis- 
patched a letter of the most unexceptionable calligraphy ex- 
tant, with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the young lady to 
an orchestral concert. 

She was harassed, and with a truculent look revolted at the 
idea, refused to consider herself sacrificable to his desires, and 
sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving which, he procured 
a carbine and bowie knife, said that he would not now forge 
fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to an isolated spot, sev- 
ered his jugular vein, and discharged the contents of his car- 
bine into his abdomen, with a grimace at the raillery of his 
acquaintances. He succumbed and was irrefragably dead, and 
neither vagaries nor pageantry were permitted when he was 
conveyed to the mausoleum followed by his enervated canine. 



The Moon. 

Serenely, O moon, thou art beaming to-night, 
Tracking the sea with thy silvery light ; 
Piercing the forest, thy beautiful rays 
Are patching the ground in fantastical ways. 

On city, on hamlet, on palace and hut, 

On the far-stretching plain, in the deep mountain cut 

Thy mellow beams softly on all alike fall ; 

O, queen of the night, thou hast homage from all : 

From the glistening dew, from the true lover's sigh, 
From the cricket's shrill voice and the katy-did's cry ; 
Thy heart-soft'ning power all races have felt ; 
To thy soothing appeal the most callous must melt. 

O mute sympathizer, invoker of tales, 

A fleet of heart secrets each night to thee sails. 

To the shipwrecked at sea, when the storm clears away 

And calm night succeeds the wild, boisterous day, 

All huddled on raft, or faint clinging to spar, 

There's a hope in thy beams that no danger can mar. 

When red in the east thou ascendest the sky. 
And thy disc meets the half-naked savage's eye, 
He pauses, and feels as he views thy bright light 
That a Greater than he is displaying His might. 
Ere since by Omnipotence whirled into space. 
Thou hast gladdened the night with thy radiant face. 

To nations long dead, and unheard of by man. 
Thou wast familiar when first they began. 
Through their ages of splendor, their waning away, 
Till their last mould'ring relic succumbed to decay. ^ 

And so, till Jehovah's dread voice bids thee stay, 
And the night is absorbed by Eternity's day, 
Thou shalt in thine orbit thy mission pursue, 
A bright silver ship in an ocean of blue. 

— Geo, M. Vtckers, 
125 



The Suicide. 

The sun had set. The ruddy clouds 

Had changed to gloomy gray, 
And sweet, sad twilight soothed the hour 

Forsaken by the day. 

A village road, with nest-like cots, 

And oaks, on either hand. 
An old stone bridge, whose single arch, 

A dark, deep river spanned : 

And sounds of distant merry shouts 

Were borne upon the breeze, 
When, on the bridge there came a maid. 

And sank upon her knees. 

A maid ? Perhaps a slighted wife— 

Or neither — none could tell— 
A stricken life — a broken heart 

About to bid farewell — 

Farewell to that, which lacking hope. 

Is but a dreary waste ; 
Where Nature's brightest, fairest sweets 

Grow bitter to the taste. 

She rose — advanced unto the brink— 

A wild, imploring prayer — 
Alas ! she stood, unloved — alone — 

A statue of despair. 

One plaintive wail, and then a plunge— 

The wavelets laved the shore — • 
Then all was still. The river flowed 

As smoothly as before. _^^^ ^ ^^^^^_ 

126 



The Felon's Wife. 



The scene was a court of justice, where criminals were tried, 
And a woman and child^ stood sobbing close by a prisoner's 

side . 
The man was the woman's husband, the child their darling 

boy. 
And they waited the dreadful sentence that would two fond 

lives destroy. 
The sunshine streamed through the window and fell on the 

judge's face,^ 
While the song of a bird in a tree-top^ seemed harsh and out 

of place ; 
Then the sunlight merged into shadow,'* and the bird had 

ceased to sing — 
So quick are the fitful changes that fate and nature bring. 

The ordeal soon was over, and the woman stood alone, 
Alone with her tender offspring, with a heart that weighed like 

stone. 
The convict's tear still glistened like a gem on her pallid cheek. 
And that tear-drop mutely told her what his white lips could 

not speak. 
*Twds a sad farewell, that parting, for it severed man and 

wife — 
Doomed her to toil unaided ; him to servitude for life: 



Gestures, i. H. O. 2. Left H. O. 3. A. L. 4. B. P. H. O. 

127 



^28 - '^^^ FELON'S WIFE. 

But time soothes' the deepest sorrow, and love will hope and 

pray, 
And soon like a dream grew the terrors of that sad and awful 

day. 

******* 

'Tis night on the Mississippi, and a steamer, staunch and new^ 

Has stopped at a village landing her fuel to renew ; 

A man, the only passenger, steps^ hurriedly on board. 

And mates and crew stand ready, waiting the captain's word : 

" Haul in the gang-plank, lively! cast off your hawser, quick!" 

Who — oo ! blows the hoarse, loud whistle, for the fog hangs 

low' and thick : 
Dong ! dong ! rings the pilot's signal ; plash ! plash ! go the 

mammoth wheels, 
And into the gloomy shadows, like a monster swan she steals.* 

A hundred souls are sleeping, and the engine's throbbing drone^ 
Has lulled the weary look-out with its drowsy monotone. 
Now the mist is lifting^*^ slightly, and a light" gleams on the 

shore — 
'Tis gone; now the night grows blacker,^^ more dismal than 

before : 
Who-oo ! goes the whistle hoarsely, but the steamer plows 

along. 
For the pilot knows his bearings and he softly hums a song. 

Who — oo ! comes a sound, and faintly, like an echo far away; 

And the engine still is droning, still is heard the raining spray; 
''Boat ahead, sir!"^^ calls the look-out; "Ay, ay, sir, boat 

ahead 1 " 
Thus replies the watchful pilot as he glances at the red," 

5. P. H. O. 6. H. F. 7. B. P. H. O. 8. H. F. 9. P. H. F. >^. R^e- 
ftand P. II. H. L. 12. B. V. H. O. 13. Look up. 14. Look uy V* nght 



THE FELON'S WIFE. 129 

Then turns to see the green** light, which the mist-clouds 

magnify 
Till upon each wheelhouse, gleaming, stares a single monster eye. 
Below the lights burn dimly, for all are locked in sleep, 
Save the stewardess and a porter who silent vigil keep — 
Who — 00! that's close upon us! dong! quick goes the pilot's bell. 
The engineer springs promptly and handles his lever well : 

"God help us ! what has happened ? " the frantic people cry, 
While terror and wild confusion are seen in every eye : 

Hark^^ to the trampling overhead ! to the rudder's rattling 

chain ! 
To the shrieks that come from the cabin, where the women 

still remain ! 
One blinding flash !^^ one shudder ! now everything is still, 
Save the swash^^ of the flowing river, and the sigh of the night 

wind^^ chill. 
The papers were full of the story, 'twas their theme for a day 

or more. 
Then the tale grew old and the world rolled on as smoothly as 

before. 

In a lowly home by the river^^ live a woman and her son. 
And the Hues on their patient faces show what toil and care 

have done : 
They stand with a priest and surgeon, near the bed of a dying 

man. 
And hark to his broken whispers, while his ashen face they scan : 
His life had been worse than wasted, and his soul was black 

with sin. 
And a seething hell of sorrow was raging his breast within — 

15. Look up to left. 16. Raise hand **> listen. 17. V. H. O. 18. P. Sw. 
19. A. O. 20. H. O. 
9 



I^O l'^^ FELON S WIFE. 

*' Yet— -rd-— make — one — reparation — " and his trembling voice 

sinks low — 
" I — would — do — one — thing — of — honor — tho' the last — be- 
fore — I — go." 

From — the — wreck — of — the— smouldering — steamer — fate — 

bore — me — bleeding — here, — 
That — my — awful — retribution — to — these — victims — mighi 

— appear — 
I — swear !^^ — "and his voice grows louder, "if — you — search 

— that — satchel — there — ^^ 
You — will — find — some — strange — confessions — and — the — 

proofs- — of— truth — they bear — " 
On the walP^ hangs a bag all blistered, which the womaii 

hastes to reach. 
For she of all his hearers knows the purport of his speech. 
"This^ proves my husband's innocence! Thank God for 

what you've said ! " 
And she turns to the lonely passenger, only to find him dead. 

Softly the sunbeams golden steaP by a prison bar 
Lighting an empty dungeon whose iron door stands ajar;-^ 
And the same sun lights a cottage,^^ with a warm and cheery glow. 
Where three fond hearts united, with rapture overflow : 
"O, husband," the woman whispers, "I knew that you told me 

true ;" 
And he smiles and gently answers, " let us our vows renew ; 
Come, boy, kiss your new found mother, whom we'll love to 

the end of life. 
For we've bid farewell forever to the grief-tried felon's wife." 
— Geo. M. Vickers. 

21. Raise hand to swear, 22. Ind. H. O. 23. 11. O. 24. Fist raised as 
though holding satchel, 25. P. Sw. 26. H. O. 27. Left H. O. 



Little Christel. 



Fraulein, the young school mistress, to her pupils said one 

day, 
" Next week, at Pfingster holiday. King Ludwig rides this way; 
And you will be wise my little ones, to work with a will at 

your tasks, 
That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks. 
It would be a shame too dreadful, if the king should have it 

to tell. 
That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not 

spell !" 

" Oho ! that never shall happen," cried Hansel, and Peterkin 

too, 
" We'll show King Ludwig when he comes, what the boys in 

this school can do." 
" And we," said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little 

maids. 
Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids. 
" We will pay such good attention to every word you say 
That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides 

this way." 

She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved 

her so. 
And with patient care she taught them the things it was good 

to know. 
Day alter day she drilled them, till the great day came at last, 
When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding 

blast; 

131 



133 



LITTLE CJIRISTEL. 



And with music and flying banners, and the clatter of horses' 

feet, 
The King and his troops of soldiers rode down the village 

street. 

Oh, the hearts of the eager children, beat fast with joy and 

fear, 
And Fraulein trembled, and grew pale, as the cavalcade drew 

near; 
But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons 

came to be heard, 
For in all the flock of her boys and girls, not one of them 

missed a word. 
And King Ludwig turned to the teacher, with a smile and a 

gracious look ; 
" It is plain," said he, " that your scholars have carefully 

conned their book." 

" But now let us ask some questions, to see if they understand;" 
And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his 

hand. 
It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and 

kind, — 
A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind. 
" What kingdom does this belong to ?" as he called her to his 

knee ; 
And at once, " The vegetable," she answered quietly. 

" Good," said the monarch kindly ; and showed her a piece oi 

gold; 
* Now tell me what does this belong to, the pretty coin that I 

hold ?" 



LirTLE ClIRISTEL. 13^ 

She touched it with a careful finger — for gold was a metal 

rare — 
And then, " The mineral kingdom !" she answered with confi- 

dent'air. 
" Well done for the little madchen !" and good King Ludwig 

smiled 
At Fraulein and her sister, the teacher, and the child. 
" Now answer me one more question," — with a twinkle of fun 

in his eye, — 
" What kingdom do / belong to ?" For he thought she would 

make reply 
" The animal ;" and he meant to ask with a frown, if that was 

the thing 
For a little child like her, to say to her lord and master, the 

King ? 
He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at 

naught, 
And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in 

his thought. 

But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in 

her face. 
Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place. 
'* What kingdom do you belong to ?" her innocent lips repeat ; 
" Why, surely, the Kingdom of Heaven !" rings out the answer 

sweet. 
And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell, 
And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at 

little Christel. 

But it only lasted a moment ; then rose as sudden a shout, — 
" Well done, well done for little Chrietel !" and the braves 
rang about. 



134 THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK. 

For the King in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, 

shy surprise, 
And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his 

eyes. 
" May the blessing of God," he murmured, "forever rest on 

thy head ! 
Henceforth, by his grace, my Hfe shall prove the truth of what 

thou hast said." 

He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her 

own. 
And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had 

never known. 
To Fraulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer, 
That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a 

year. 
And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing. 
The Lord had a better servant, the land had a better King. 
— Mrs. Mary E. Bradley, iit*'' Wide Awake!' 



The Ballad of Breakneck. 



The sun shines out on the mountain^ crest; 

Far down the valley the shadows^ fall ; 
All crimson and gold is the glowing west;^ 

And wheeling and soaring the eagles^ call. 
The good ship^ rides with a filling sail ; 

The sailors are crying, " Away ! away ! 
We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail ; 

The night and the breeze brook no delay." 

Gestures, i. Left A. O. 2. P. H. F. 3. H. L. 4. Left A. Sw. 5. H. F. 



THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK, 135 

The young mate lingers upon the strand* 

Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek; 
In his broad brown palm he holds her hand, 

And eager and low are the words they speak. 
" Weep^ not, Nekama ; I shall return ; 

Wait for me here on the mountain side ; 
When the woods in their autumn glory burn, 

I shall come again to claim my bride." 

Slowly the Indian lifts her head ; 

Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye : 
" Nekama^ will wait as thou hast said : 

The son of the pale-face cannot lie. 
Seeking thy sails on the stream below,' 

Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,^^ 
When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow. 

From the mountain top I shall watch for thee." 

The sailors are calling ; the broad sails flap ; 

From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain, 
Flings^^ the gleaming links in Nekama's lap, 

Then springs^ to the shallop's stern again. 
The stout ash bends to the rowers will. 

Till the small boat reaches the vessel's side, 
Then he turns to Nekama waiting still. 

Sad, but calm in her savage pride. 

Sails the ship under high Cro' Nest,^^ 
Wearing and tacking in Martins' Reach,^* 

While Dirck looks back with a man's unrest; 
And Nekama^^ lingers upon the beach. 

Fade the sails to a vague white speck ; 



6. H. O. 7. Look to H. O. 8. Look to Left H. O. 9. H. O. lo. A. O. 
/I. Sp. 12. H. F. 13. A. O. 14. Left H. F. 15. H. O. 



1^6 THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK. 

Loom the mountains, hazy and tall ; 
Dirck watches still from the vessel's deck, 
And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall. 

A year has passed, and upon the hills*^ 

Scarlet and russet have faded to brown ; 
No sound is heard but the flowing rills," 

The summer's voices are hushed ^^ and gone.** 
A late, sad crow^*^ on a bare beech top 

Caws and swings in an autumn wind ; 
The dead leaves fall, and the acorn's drop^ 

Breaks the stillness and scares the hind. 

Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands, 

Scans^^ the horizon with eager eye. 
Late he lingers. She clasps^* her hands, 

And a sadness dims her wide dark eye. 
Is it a mist^^ o'er the distant shore ? 

Look how the maiden's^ dusky face 
Glows and brightens ! a moment more. 

And the white speck changes,^^ and grows apace. 

He comes ! he comes ! From the wigwams near 
Gather the braves^^ and the squaws again ; 

The men are decked with arrow and spear, 

And the women of wampum and feathers vain. 

Flecked is the river^* with light canoes. 
Laden with gifts for the welcome guest ; 

The spoils of the chase let him freely choose ; 

29 

Close to the ship are the frail barks pressed. 



16. Left A. O. 17. H. L. 18. P. H. O. 19. Drop hand. 20. Left A. O. 
21. Sp. 22. Hand over eyes, and lean forward. 23. Clasp hands. 24. LeftH. F. 
25. H. O. 26. Left H. F. 27. B. H. O. 28. P. H. F. 29, H. F. 



THE BALLAD OF BREAKNECK, j 37 

Brown and still as a bronze relief, 

Shyly Nekama^*^ keeps her place 
Behind her father, the Mohawk chief, 

Who, plumed and tall, with painted face, 
Grasping a spear^^ in his nervous hand, 

Looking in vain one face to see. 
Turns and utters his proud demand : 

" Dirck Brandsen^^ comes not : where lingers he ?" 

^Dirck stays in Holland," ^^ the sailors say ; 

" He has wedded a dame of wealth and state ; 
He sails no more for many a day — 

God send us all like happy fate ! " 
Dark grows the brow of the angered sire : 

" Can the white man lie like a Huron knave ? " 
The eyes of the maiden burn like fire. 

But her mien is steady, her words are brave. 

From her bosom she drags^^ the great gold chain ; 

Dashed ^^ at the captain's feet it lies : 
" Take back to the traitor his gift again ; 

Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies ! '* 
Proudly she steps^^ to her light canoe ; 

Bends her paddle at every stroke ; 
The graceful bark o'er the waters flew. 

Nor wist they a woman's heart had broke. 

Up the mountain^^ Nekama hies ; 

Stands in the pine tree's shade again ; 
Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes ; 

Moans Hke a creature in mortal pain. 



30. H. O. 31. Sp. 32. Turn to left. 33. to right. 34. Sp. 35. D. F. 
36. H. O. 37. A. O. 



UB 



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 

The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,** - 

Caws the crow on the bough^® o'erhead 
The great limbs bend and the branches creak — 

" Ah, why do I live P'*^ He is false !"^^ she said. 
A shriek is heard through the gathering storm ; 

A rushing figure darkens the air ; 
Out from the cliffy springs a slender form 

And the maiden's grief lies buried there."*^ 
Towers the gray crag'^ grim and high ; 

Drips the blood from its rugged side ; 
Loud and shrill is the eagles call 

O'er the muttering wash of the angry tide ! 

But Storm King^ nods to old Cro' Nest,^^ 

Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call, 
Though the Mohawk sleeps 'neath that rocky crest,'*® 

While the leaves on his ruined castles fall. 
To-day on the Hudson sailing by, 

Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill, 
We tell the legend, and heave a sigh, 

Where Nekama's memory lingers still. 

— Harper's Magazine. 



The Chemist to his I ova. 



I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me. 
Our mutual flame is like the affinity 
That doth exist between two simple bodies : 
I am Potassium to thine Oxygen: 

38. B.Par. A. O. 39. A. F. 40. Wring hands. ' 41. B. D. Cli. 42. A.O. 
43. Ind.D.O. 44. A.O. 45. H.O. 46. Left A.O. 47. A.O. 48 tnd. A.Q 



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 13^ 

'Tis little that the holy marriage vow 

Shall shortly make us one. That unity 

Is, after all, but metaphysical. 

Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an Acid, 

A living acid, and thou an alkali, 

Endowed with human sense, that brought together. 

We might coalesce unto one salt. 

One homogeneous ciystal. Oh, that thou 

Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen ! 

We would unite to form olefiant gas, 

Or common Coal, or Naphtha. Would to Heaven 

That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime, 

And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret ! 

I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, 

So that thou might be Soda ; in that case 

We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia 

Instead, we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom 

Could 'st thou Potassa be, I, Aquafortis, 

Our happy union should be that compound form, 

Nitrate of Potash, — otherwise Saltpetre. 

And thus our several natures sweetly blent, 

We'd live and love together, until death 

Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid. 

Leaving our souls to all eternity 

Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs 

And mine is Johnson. Wherfore should not we 

Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs ? 

We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, 

When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. 



A Wayward Life. 



[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very 
materially to the effect of this piece.] 

^n^IS a cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown 
j[ of snow. The moon is partly hidaen by the driving 
clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world. 

The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old 
church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly 
gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a 
human form ; it is a rough, old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed 
to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs ; now he 
sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no 
marble slab to mark out the spot ; only the drifted snow, only 
the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it. 

Hark ! he speaks ; his voice is feeble ; he mournfully cries, 
" Mother, I've come home to die with you. Here on your 
long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I 
sleep in your arms ; and the soft music within that dear church, 
let me fancy 'tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I 
dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my 
God." 

See ! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs 
like a tired little child, " Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of 
life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I 
am afraid to die." He pauses, he listens, for within the church 
a voice speaks slowly and reverently, " Come unto me all ye that 
laborand are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The tramp 
140 



A IVAYWARD LIFE. j^j 

replies, " Could I but know those words were meant for such a 
sinner as I ! " — and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched 
frame. 

Now the choir sings : 

" Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief. 
Go tell it to Jesus, He'll send thee relief; 
Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way, 
He'll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray." 

The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and 
he murmurs half inaudibly, " The prayers that were taught me 
in sweet boyhood years I then repeated with smiles, but now 
tears dim my eyes as I think of that patient mother who lies 
beneath this mound. I killed her ! I broke her heart ! But 
mother, oh, hear me to-night ! With my poor, weary form I 
will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered grave. Could 
I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would 
rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so 
many, so vile ! 'Tis only the pure and holy and good that 
ever dare hope they may enter therein." 

Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, 
each word from the singers comes clearly and plainly : 

" Weary of earth and laden with my sin, 
I look at Heaven and long to enter in ; 
But there no evil thing may find a home, 
And yet I hear a voice that bids me come." 

Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he 
clasps his trembling hands, then with one yearning look 
towards Heaven, he sinks like a child, weary of play," sleepy 
and tired, on that snow-covered pillow, the pillow of death. 



142 THE LITTLE TORMENT. 

Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him 
gently, like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it 
out of its slumber. 

Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ 
peals out, and the choir sings : 

"Safe in the arms of Jesus, 
Safe on his gentle breast, 
There by his love o'er-shadowed, 
Sweetly my soul shall rest." 

— Lizzie G. Vickers. 



The Little Torment. 



M 



Y NAME'S Jack. I'm eight years old. I've a sister Ara- 
thusa, and she calls me a little torment. I'll tell you 
why : You know Arethusa has got a beau, and he comes to 
see her every night, and they turn the gas 'way, 'way down 'till 
you can't hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on 
full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night. 
I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went 
to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. 
Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down 
on the sofa, and I couldn't hear nothing but smack ! smack ! 
smack ! Then I reached out and jerked Arethusa's foot. 
Then she jumped and said, " Oh, mercy, what's that?" and 
Alfonso said she was a " timid little creature." Oh, Alfonso, 
I'm happy by your side, but when I think of your going away 
it almost breaks my heart." Then I snickered right out, I 
couldn't help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through 
the key-hole and said, " I do believe that's Jack, nasty little 



THE STAR^. J4^ 

torment, he's always where he isn't wanted." Do you know 
this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa 
and stood up before her and said, "you think you are smart 
because you wear a Grecian Bend. I guess I know what 
you've been doing, you've been sitting on Alphonso's lap, and 
letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself If it hadn't been for that 
old false front of yours, Pa would have let me have a velocipede 
like Tom Clifford's. You needn't be grinding them false teeth 
of yours at me, I ain't a-going out of here. I ain't so green as 
I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don't care if you 
are 28 years old, you ain't no boss of me ! " 



The Stars. 



Spanglets of heaven ! Ye seem to me 

The alphabet of immensity. 

By which I read, in dazzling light, 

The lofty name of the Infinite. 

Shine on ! Shine on ! in your depths of blue, 

'Till every heart can read it too, 

And every raptured eye that's bent 

Up to the studded firmament. 

Catches the glow of your ceaseless rays, 

And glistens in the Eternal's praise. 

Beautiful stars ! 'Neath your rich beams, 
As down from heaven their glory streams, 
When silence has sealed up the lips of Earth, 
And thought, more wild than the winds, has birth. 



_|^^^ 14^ HY SHE DIDN'T STAY TV THE POORHOUSE, 

I wander ! I wander ! with untold joy, 

To feast my soul on the orb-lit sky ; 

And never did Chaldee, when taught to kneel 

At the shrines of your splendor, more wildly feel 

The torrents of bliss through his bosom flow, 

As he upward gazed from the dust below. 

Eyes of the universe ! Gems divine ! 
Suns that bask in your own pure shine ! 
Countless guides of the awe -struck soul. 
As inquiring it rushes from pole to pole : 
I drink ! I drink ! at your fountains deep. 
While the world is locked in the arms of sleep, 
'Till filled with the Pythonic draught of light, 
My intoxicate spirit deems all things bright ; 
And earth (and its deeds) is lost to me, 
Eclipsed by your dazzling radiency. 

— Dublin University Magazine. 



Why She didn't Stay in the Poorhouse. 

No, I didn't stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see. 

It happened at the very last, there came a way for me. 

The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest 

days, 
And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise. 
But, as I am goin' to tell you, I have a home of my own. 
And keep my house, an' — no, I'm not a-livin' here alone. 
Of course you wonder how it is, an' I'm a-goin* to tell 
How, though I couldn't change a jot, the Lord done all things 

well. 



iVHY SHE DIDN'T STa IN TBI': ^OOI^HOUS^.. ,^r 

I've spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, " that lives 

out West;" 
An' Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best ; 
An' Susan ; — but not a single word I said about another one,^- 
Yet we had six ; but Georgie ! Ah ! he was our wayward son, 
An' while his father was livin' he ran away to sea. 
An' never sent a word or line to neither him nor me. 
Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there, 
An' what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear. 
But I couldn't talk of Georgie — he was too dear to blame, — 
It seemed as if I couldn't bear even to hear his name. 
But when I took my pauper's place in that old work -house 

grim, 

My weary heart was every day a-cryin' out for him. 

For I'd tried the love of the others, and found it weak and 

cold. 
An' I kind o'_ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old, 
He'd help to make it better, and try to do his part. 
For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman's heart. 
An' he used to be always tellin' when he was a man and 

strong. 
How he'd work for father and mother ; and he never done no 

wrong, 
Exceptin' his boyish mischief, an' his runriin' off to sea ; — 
So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me. 
And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go. 
When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know 
Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till 'twould seem 
That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream. 
And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him, 
And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes 

were dim. 



146 ''BILL;' THE ENGINEER. 

And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again 
I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men. 
When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin' up to 

me, 
Sayin' *' Mother! my God! have they put you here?" An' 

then I see 
'Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed 

nothin' more, 
'Cause I got faint, and but for him, I'd fallen on the floor. 
They say he swore some awful words, — I don't know, — it may 

be; 
But swear or not, I know my boy's been very, very good to 

me. 
An' he's bought the old home back again, an' I've come here 

to stay, 
Never to move till the last move, — the final goin' away. 
An' I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie' s good an' kind, 
An' the thought of bein' a pauper ain't wearin' on my mind; 
But still I never can forget until my dyin' day. 
That they put me in the poorhouse 'cause I was in the way 



"Bill" the Engineer. 



"AH 'board!" " Sphee-ee-chee — sphee-ee-choof !" 
And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof, 
And snorts from his chest his breath of steam. 
With a quickening pulse and warning scream. 
Moves out^ with his freight of human lives — 
A sinuous^ chain of humming hives. 



I. H. F. 2. H. O. 



**bill;' the engineer. i^^ 

Anon the hum is a rattling din, 
As the bright steel arms fly out and in, 
Till naught is heard save a deafening jar, 
As the train speeds^ on like a shooting star, 
With a lengthening trail'* like a smoky pall , 
Whose writhing folds envelope all. 

" Stoke up ! " shouts Bill, the engineer ; 

" We must rush this grade and the bottom clear" 

With a monstrous bulge, to pull up hill 

T'other side— heavy train." " All right. Bill ! " 

And the coal went in and the throttle out. 

" Watch yo' side the curve ! " from Bill with a shout. 

Adown the grade with open throttle 
They swiftly glide as a flying shuttle — 
Weaving in streaks of green and gray, 
The warp and woof of bush and clay. 
While steam and smoke and dust behind 
Form mottled clouds in the tortured wind. 

Through the cut^ and into the vale — 

Across the trestle that spans the swale ; 

There the willows swirl, and the rank weeds sway, 

And the heron starts with a shriek away® — 

Blown from her course — a shrill refrain, 

'Mid the whirling gusts of the flying train. 

* * * * * * :|e 

Beyond the curve this side the hill. 

There runs a creek — by the old saw-mill — 



3. H. O. quick motion, 4. Trace line of smoke with ind. fin. from H. O. 
to H. F. 5. H. O. continuous gesture. 6. A. O. 



148 •*3ill;' the engineer, 

A covered bridge^ and a water tank, 
With the watchman's shanty on this bank : 
A quiet nook, for the mill is done, — 
With crippled Jemmie it ceased to run. 

Just round ^ the curve in the shady wood 
That fringes the creek, his low hut stood. 
Where Jemmie, the watch, spent his useful life. 
With a lovely child and a loving wife. 
Naught now came their peace to mar 
Worse than a swift train's rumbling jar. 

To fame unknown, but to roadmen dear ; 
For Jemmie had watched from year to year— 
And more than once did his vigil save 
A train and its lives from a watery grave; 
Since broken in purse and form at the mill 
He worked on crutches — a good watch still ! 



" Hark !^ 'Tis the train ! The mother's ear 
Leans to the sound ; then a mortal fear 
Freezes her veins — she sees not her child^*^ ! 
" Oh, darling ! Oh, Maggie ! " in accents wild. 
She starts^^ from the hut — no^ feeling the way, 
" Keep Maggie in when the trains go by!' 

She strains her eyes^^ out toward the creek, 
Where up the track, with an ashen cheek, 
Hobbled the watch^^ — one pointing crutch 

7. H. O. continue with impulses to *' bank:' 8. H.O. sweep. 9, Left listen, 
ing. 10. Look around distractedly. 11. H.O. 12. Handover eyes. 13. H.O. 



^BlLLr THE ENGINEER. 

Where Maggie lay^^ in the engine's clutch— 
The wilting flowers across her breast ; 
She'd wearied to sleep in their eager quest. 

" Save her, Mary!*^ For God's sake run !" 
Came Jemmie's voice like a signal gun ; 
The mother sprang like a startled deer, 
But the rushing train^^ was now too near — 
She saw, and swooned^^ with a piercing shriek 
That echoed afar o'er the winding creek ; 

Ay, pierced the boom round the curve so near,** 

And smote on the ear of the engineer ; 

" Great God ! Down brakes ! Quick ! Reverse !' 

And Bill was out*^ on the iron horse. 

Treading his thrills o'er the roaring fires 

With his nerves strung tense as electric wires. 

Alas ! the engine's speed is too great ; 
The baby dreams in the path of fate ! 
Yet Bill knows the force and just the brace 
To lift a pound in such a case ; 
With a rushing train and the child asleep, 
'Tis a giants' power his place must keep. 

Still reaching forth with an iron grasp. 
He does with his might this God-like task ; 
Bears the startled child on high^^ — 
So happy to hear its frightened cry — 



149 



14. Ind. H. F. 15. Throw both hands up. 16, Left H. O. 17. D. F. l8. 
Left H. L. 19. Left H. O. 20. Raise hand as though lifting child. 



ijc **bill;' the engineer. 

Then crushing it to his manly breast,^ 
Kisses its cheeks with a lover's zest. 

" More brakes !" calls Bill, for the mother's seen,^^ 
And the crutches and form of Jemmie between 
His wife and the train — that's crushed the life 
From his child, he thinks — " I'll die with my wife !" 
But the train now slackens and stops apace — 
Hard by a pallid upturned face?^ 

"Saved!" cries Bill, from the engine's front; 

" Saved !" echoes Jemmie, his crutches shunt ; 

" Saved ! " shout the passengers, " Saved from death !" 

" Saved ?"^^ queries Mary, with conscious breath 

Then helped to her feet — " God bless you sir !" 

And Bill's grimy hand wipes back a tear 

"All 'board!" Sphee-ee-chee — sphee-ee-cboof !" 
And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof; 
And the train resumes its journey far. 
Heroes have been, and heroes are — 
Of battle and State^ of travel and skill, 
Of letters and art — but give us " Bill."^ 

At the end of the road they gave him a purse 

" I don't want that !" and he muttered a curse;. 

But finally took it, and stowed it away, 

And then threw^^ it to " Mag " as he passed next day 

It whirled through the air and struck by the stoop, 

Where the three stood to greet him, a joyful group. 

— Bettersworth 

21. Hand on breast. 22. D. O. 23. D. L. 24. A. O. 25. Dazed mannei 
26. H. F. cordially. 27. H. sweep. 

Published by permission of T. J. Carey, Editor of " Excelsior Readings and Recitations." 



The True Remedy. 



Don't say that times are pinching ; 

Don't say that bread is dear; 
Don't say that our prospects darken. 

And that worse times are near. 

Times are not so very pinching ; 

Bread is not so very dear; 
Countless stores of loaves are wasted, 

Burned in whisky, — drowned in beer. 

Don't say that the harvest failed us, — 
"Under average," "short," or "light;" 

Don't say that the Bounteous Giver 
Gave not as you think he might. 

God is bountiful, and giveth 

As becomes the Godhead's hand ; 
Food for man and beast providing, 

Scattering plenty o'er the land. 
Man himself, the food destroyer, 

Spurns and wastes the bounties given ; 
Turns to famine God's abundance, 

Robs his brothers, blasphemes heaven. 

Don't say that this is fearful, 
Killing men and burning com ; 

War is raging here among us, 

Day and night, and eve and morn. 



152 THE TRUE REMEDY. 

Noiselessly and never ending, 

In a quiet, legal way, 
Murdering, starving, scourging, blasting. 

All the year and every day ! 

Take your grain in million quarters, 

Sink it in the lonely main. 
There to feed the gaping fishes, 

Never to be seen again ; 
Hide it in earth's drearest caverns. 

Burn it in the mid-day sun : — 
That were mercy, that were worship, 

When compared with what is done, — 
Taking bread from hungry children. 

And from starving, weeping wives ; 
Turning it to direst poison ; 

Demonizing human nature. 
Dwarfing it in moral stature, 
Blotting out each God-like feature, 

Shortening, tort'ring human lives I 

We say, something must be done ; 

Government must interfere, — 
Take the " short and simple method ;** 

Stop the whisky, stop the beer ! 

You can stop them if you will. 

'Tis a small thing, will you do it? 
*Tis your country calls you to it ; 

Stop the traffic — shut the still. 

— Tempe'^anc^ Speaki^, 



Wanted— A Wife. 

I DO wish somebody would tell me how to get a wife. For 
the last ten years I've been continually proposing, at all 
sorts of times, in all sorts of places, to all sorts of girls, and in 
all sorts of positions. I have knelt in the clear moonlight, 
while the soft zephyrs of June fanned my heated brow, and 
with my hands on my heart made the most passionate appeal 
romantic maiden could desire. I have proposed in the giddy 
mazes of the waltz ; I" have besought a fair girl to be mine 
while skating, reminding her at the time that the path of life 
was far too slippery to be trodden alone ; I have popped the 
question on the stairs, and in fact everywhere I could; the 
last time being in the surf at Long Branch, where I begged 
the object of my affections to let us breast the waves of life 
together. 

But it's of no earthly use ! No one will have me except 
some superannuated female, and I'm not partial to aged charm- 
ers, though, goodness knows, I want a wife almost bad enough 
to take one. I've hardly a button on any of my shirts, or 
other undergarments, and am consequently obliged to fasten 
them with pins, (which occasionally prick me at most incon- 
venient times). My toes are poking out of my socks, and my 
fingers out of my gloves, while to crown all, I, who am a great 
lover of cleanliness, am forced to sit in a horribly dirty room. 
I have changed my boarding house ever so many times, but it 
does'nt make a particle of difference. My landlady always 
says it isn't her business to "clean up" after me ; the servants 
invariably remark that its no business of theirs, and I'm sure 
nobody can say that I ought to get a broom and dustpan and 
keep my own room clean. 

153 



jfCA BACK TO GRIGGSBTS. 

My washerwoman is everlastingly cheating nie, besides con- 
tinually suppressing various articles of clothing ; and when I 
mildly inquire where they have gone to, she solemnly swears 
she never had them ; though I could swear equally solemnly 
that she had. Then she cuts the pearl buttons off my shirts. 
and declares they came off in "the wash ;" and if I venture 
timidly to suggest that she should put them on again, she 
thanks God that all the gentlemen are not as mean as I am. 

Oh, dear ! It's very hard upon a poor fellow not to be able 
to get a wife when he wants one ! I'm not so very bad look- 
ing either ; to be sure I squint a little, but then that peculiarity 
is sometimes admired, and if it were not, surely some kind- 
hearted girl might shut her eyes to the fact and confer upon 
me the inestimable benefit of becoming my partner for life. 
I'm not bad-tempered, and don't drink nor sm^oke. I'm only 
thirty, and though I now belong to a club, I'll promise to 
give it up if required. I possess enough money to keep a wife 
comfortably ; have a good disposition ; and what more could 
a girl ask. If, after trying six months longer, I cannot induce 
any girl to have me, I will emigrate to some tropical climate 
where clothes are almost superfluous, and washerwomen un- 
known, and consequently where a wife will not be one of the 
absolute necessities of civilized life. 



Back to Griggsby's. 



Pap's got his patent-right, and rich as all cre?.tion j 

But Where's the peace and comfort that we all had bf;fore ? 

Let's go a-visitin* back to Griggsby's station— - 
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore I 



BACK TO GRIG uSBV :^. j r ^ 

The like of us a-livin' here ! It's jest a mortal pity 

To see us in this great, big house, with carpets on the stairs, 

And the pump right in the kitchen ! And the city ! city ! 
city! 
And nothi'X but the city all around us everywheres ! 

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, 
And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree ! 

And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, 

And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see ! 

Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station — 

Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door ; 

And every neighbor round the place is dear as a relation — 
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! 

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin' 

A- drivin' up from Shallow Ford to stay the Sunday through ; 

And I want to see them hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' 
Out there at Lizy Ellen's, like they used to do ! 

I want to see the piece quilts the Jones girls is makin', 

And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, 

And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', 
Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land 

Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station — 
Back where there's nothin' aggervatin' anymore, 

Shet away safe in the wood around the old location — 
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! 

\ want to see Mirandy and help her with her sewin'. 
And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone* 



I 56 ^^^^ ^^^ SPINSTER. 

And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin , 
And smile as I have saw her, 'fore she put her mournin' on. 

And I want to see the Samples on the old lower Eighty — 
Where John, our oldest boy, he was took and buried, for 

His own sake and Katy's — and I want to cry with Katy 
As she reads all his letters over, writ from the war. 

What's in all this grand life and high situation, 

And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door — 

Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station — 
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! 

— /. W, Riley. 



The Old Spinster. 



No, she never was married, but was to have been — 

At the time she was running the loom — 
But the fact'ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred. 

And her lover was never her groom, 
As he wedded a handsomer girl. 

To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed, 

For her features were grim and distorted ; 
Tho' in years long gone by she was lovely and fair, 

As the hopes of her life that were thwarted 
By the dreadful mishap in the mill. 

But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore, 

Beat a heart that was loving and tender — 
As the villagers knew — and man, woman or child 

'Gainst the merest rude speech would defend her 
So well was the poor woman loved. 



THE OLD SPINSTER. jq;^ 

And right many's the maid, who, bewailing her woe. 
Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her, 

Only soon to trip on with a happier look, 
While the silly goose inwardly blessed her, 

For her comforting words and advice. 

Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud, 

Afraid to go home — perhaps crying — 
But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains, 

And they laughed while their garments were drying, 
In the yard at the back of her cot. 

When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl, 

And the rustling of leaves were unheeded. 
In the room of the sick, by the flickering light 

Was she seen, where her presence was needed. 
While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall. 

And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust. 

Ere they went on their wearisome ways, 
Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate. 

Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days. 
And who reckoned them not by their rags. 

But the weight of her grief which was never revealed, — 

Save to Jesus — the friend of the lowly — 
Bore her down — and the sands of her desolate life. 

Which for years had been ebbing out slowly. 
Ceased to run — and her spirit was freed. 

When the villagers stood at the side of her grave, 
When the gray-headed preacher's voice faltered, 

When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men— 
Oh ! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered 

As when happy she worked in the mill. 



158 A STRING OF BROKEN BEADS. 

And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen 
When the twilight is deep'ning its shadows : 

And the sweetest of flow'rets are found on her tomb, 
All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows ; 

Yet who gathers them no one can tell. 

— Geo, M, VickerSi 



String of Broken Beads; or, Jingles from 
Favorite Authors. 



Oh, with what pride I used 
To walk these hills, and look up to my God, 
And bless him that the land was free. 'Twas free — 
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free ! 
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks, 
And plow our valleys, without asking leave I 
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow 
In very presence of the Light Brigade. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them, 
All a gwine into the ark. 

And there was the elephant-ah, that g-r-e-a-t animal-ah oi 
which Goldsmith describes in his Animated Nater-ah. which 
is as big as a house-ah, and his bones as big as a tree-ah, de- 
pending somewhat upon the size of the tree-ah ; and there was 
Shem, and there was Ham, and there was Japhet-ah, a-1-1 
a-gwine into the show-room. 



A STRING OF BROKEN BEADS. j^q 

The auctioneer then in his labor began ; 
And called out aloud as he held up a man. 
How much for a bachelor, who wants to buy ? 
In a twinkling each maiden responded, " I — I !" 
In short, at a hugely extravagant price, 
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice, 
And forty old maidens — some younger, some older- 
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 
But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er their heads, 
When one morning to Zantippe, Socrates said, 
" I think for a man of my standing in life. 
This house is too small as I now have a wife : 
So without further delay Carpenter Gary 
Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.** 
" Now, Socrates, dearest," Zantippe replied, 
" I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; 
Now, whenever you speak of your chatties again. 
Say our cowhouse, our barn-yard, our pig-pen." 
" By your leave Mrs. Snooks, I'll say what I please 
Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." 
Then he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 
So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the fields alone. 
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court the Bugle Song. 
Oh, love, they die in yon fair sky. 
They faint on field, and hill, and river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Answer, echoes, answer. 



l60 A STRING OF BROKEN BEADS. 

Hark ! how the sign-board creaks ! the blast howls by ! 

Moan ! moan ! a dirge swells through the angry sky! 

Ha ! tis his knock ! he comes, he comes once more — • 

Ha, ha ! Take that ! and that ! and that ! 

Ha, ha ! So, through your coward throat 

The full day shines ! . . . . Two fox tails float 

And drift and drive adown the stream ; 

Therefore, mybruddren, if you's a-gwine to git saved, you's 
got to git aboard de Ship of Faith. Dere ain't no udder way 
my bruddren. Dere ain't no gitting up de back stairs, nor 
goin' 'cross lots, you's got to git aboard de Ship of Faith, for 

Me thought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!' to all the 

house, 
Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore, 
Cawdor shall sleep no more ! 
Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 

unseen censor. 
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted 

floor. 
" Wretch," I cried, " Thy God hath lent thee by these angels 

he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of L^nore ! 
Q uaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore ! ' 
Quoth the raven— Good night. 

— Arranged by F, Lizzie Peirce, 



The Legend of Wissahickon. 

While yet the Pale-face ne'er had peeped 
Within that tranquil vale, — where steeped 
In sombre, fir-clothed heights,^ and bound 
On either side^ with moss-grown ground 
And craggy cliff,^ a goodly stream,* 
With many a rippling noontide gleam, 
Nor ceased her daily tithes to pay 
To good Queen Ocean^ far away — 
Deep sheltered from the hostile world 
The smoke from many a tent up-curled, 
Where, round the wigwam fire, red dames 
Talked o'er their tawny lords' brave names, 
While they, with feathered death and bow 
And trackless step, now quick, now slow, 
Gave chase, in neighboring hills, ^ the game, 
There pasturing heedless, till death came 
In one fell dart. Life surely here — 
With naught but Manitou^ to fear — 
Seemed sweet to those blest sons of men ; 
Yet it did find its cares e'en then, 
For lo !^ at last there came a day 
Of sorrow and of dread dismay, 
When from a lowering cloud that spread* 
Across the summer blue o'erhead, 
Their God-chiefs awful voice was heard, 
As like the thunder rolled each word : 

Gestvpes. I. a. O, 2. B. H. O. 3. A. O. 4. D. F. 5. Left. H. L. «. H 
O. 7. Ind. fin. A. O. 8. Rais'>. hand. 9. V. A. O. 

" 161 



1 62 THE LEGEND OF VVISSAHICKON. 

** My children, I am called away 
Where other souls my presence pray, 
But ere I leave ye I must ask 
One boon of all, — a simple task 
Twill be to those whose faith hath borne 
The tests of fiery stake or thorn. 
Yet some I know among ye, who 
Will find it hard to sin eschew 
When left alone, and all must know, 
An evil spirit dwells below 
These rocks, and ever guards his chance 
To tempt ye, with his fiendish dance 
And wicked ways, to but forsake 
My laws for aught that he may make ; 
Lo, should he rise when I am gone, 
Let no temptation lead ye on 
To overstep the bounds here set 
About your hunting grounds, nor let 
Aught of shape, however fair 
And good it seems, entice ye where 
My word hath said ye nay." 

Thus said. 
The cloudy spirit, then vanished 
Into the air from whence it grew ; 
And now a wild commotion^*' flew 
Throughout the warriors gathered there j 
And wondered all how soon, and where, 
This new-brought ill its face should show^ 
To tempt their Eve-like hearts ; when lo ! 

to. B. H. L. 



THE LEGEND OF WJSSAHJCKON, 

Ere two short days had dragged away, 

Within a distant wood/^ where lay 

Soft twilight^ ever 'mong the trees, 

Strange music stirred, and on the breeze 

Of evening came wild shouts ot mirth,^^ 

That seemed to wake the very earth,^"* 

So boisterous were they, and, alas ! 

The youths could not a moment pass 

Till they with stealthy steps were brought 

Close to that God-forbidden spot ; 

And there, as o'er a lofty brow 

That hemmed the darksome glade, they now 

Did creep,^^ behold ! a wondrous sight,^^ 

Such as their soul's most fancied flight 

Had ne'er conceived of, met their eyes, 

Even like some glimpse of paradise: 

A Pale-face spirit,^^ lank and grim, 

With horns and claws that gave to him 

A weird, unearthly look, sat high 

Upon a rock that towered nigh ; 

And while below^^ fair damsels played 

Wild antics through the woodland shade, 

He to loud fits of mirth gave vent, 

As near the maidens came and went, 

And cast before him laurels wreathed 

In crowns ; then — ere the watchers breathed, 

Lest they should be discovered there — 

Lo ! quick as lightning 'thwart the air, 

The fiendish god turned full to view, 



163 



II. H. F. 12. P. H. F. 13. H. F. 14. D. F. 15. P. D. F. 16. B, H. O 

17. Left. A. F. 18. D. F. 



104 ^^^ LEGEND OF WISSAHICKON, 

And ere the astonished gazers knew, 
Close by their side^^ with devilish smile 
He stood, and thus addressed them,^*^ while 
With spell-bound gaze — their eyes made dim 
With fascination — now from him 
From whom they had no power to go, 
Did wander to the scene below,^^ 
Where still, — though now the sun had gone— 
To music soft, the dance went on : — 

" Would'st tho'U, oh man, to pleasure blind, 
Seeking a gift thou ne'er shalt find, 
Led by a promise far astray^^ 
Along that hard and narrow way, 
Would'st thou no more sad anguish know, 
Nor lose the chase with feeble bow ? 
Would'st thou be free,^^ and tread once more 
The grounds your fathers roamed of yore ? 
Wouldst thou find game in every copse 
And stream,^ and gather plenteous crops 
In autumn, yet know naught of care 
Nor labor, but with damsels fair^^ 
And waxen, pass life's endless days 
Along my smooth and flower-girt ways ? 
Would'st thou, in fine, the height of bliss*^ 
Attain ? I offer^^ ye all this, 
And more : come, follow me." 



19. Left. H. L. 20. Look to left. 21. D. F. 21. Speak to H. O. 22. H. 
O. 23. B. H. O. 24. Left. H.O. 25. D. F. 26. Ind. fin. A. O. 27. R 
O, H. 



THE LEGEND OF WISSANICKOIV, 165 

He ceased, 
And like some semi-human beast, 
His blood-cast eye the crowd scanned o'er, 
Where some, entranced, could hear no more, 
But, weak of heart, with outstretched hand, 
Forgetting quite their God's command 
Of yester morn, were quickly led 
Adown the cliffy* with dizzy head 
And burning brain, and those, alas ! 
From mortal view for aye did pass ; 

But some there were who still delayed, 

Not resolute and halt afraid 

To follow ; lingering there they stood 

Till lo ! the dawn^ crept through the wood ; 

And on its gentle face, behold !^^ 

A strange-shaped cloud, fringed round^^ with gold, 

Came darkly flitting through the sky, 

Till seemingly it had drawn nigh 

Above^^ that gathering in the vale. 

Then quick the subtle fiend turned pale, 

As from the frowning mists o'erhead 

A mighty voice and angry said : — 

" Depart, ye tempter of the night ! 
Hence ! Dare ye show your face in light ? 
Did I not bid thee well beware 
Lest thou shouldst fall in thine own snare ?" 
The spirit fled,^^ but scarce had left 
His seat, when some great earthquake cleft 

28. D. F. 29. H. L. 30. A. L. 31. A. Sw. 32. A. F. 33. Lett. H. O. 



1 66 A NEIV MO THER. 

The rock beneath his feet in twain, 
And deep he plunged^* between. In vain 
He strove to rise again, for quick 
The waters from a hillside creek^^ 
O'erran that pool,^^ that marks to-day 
The spot where Satan passed away. 
Then kindly smiled the Manitou 
On those around, and said : — 

" To you 

My children, who have yet withstood 
The things of evil for the good ; 
To you whose faith has ne'er been turned 
Astray by sin, well have ye earned 
The joys foretold ; so now go forth ; 
The boundless woods from south to north, 
From east to west, are yours to roam 
For aye, till I shall call ye home." 

— -Johii- L Cooper, 



A New Mother. 



I was with my lady when she died : 
I it was who guided her weak hand, 
For a blessing on each little head. 
And laid her baby by her on the bed. 
Heard the words they could not understand. 

And I drew them round my knee at night. 
Hushed their childish glee, and made them say, 



34. Left. D. O. 35. Left. H. L. 36. Left. D. O. 



A NEW MO THER. \ ^j 

They would keep her words with loving tears, 
They, would not forget her dying fears, 
Lest the thought of her should fade away. 

I, who guess'd what her last dread had been, 

Made a promise to that still, cold face, 
That her children's hearts, at any cost. 
Should be with the mother they had lost, 

When a stranger came to take her place. 

And I knew so much : for I had lived 
With my lady since her childhood : known 
What her young and happy days had been, 
And the grief no other eyes had seen — 
I had watch'd and sorrowed for alone. 

Ah ! she once had such a happy smile ! 

I had known how sorely she was tried : 

Six short years before, her eyes were bright 
As her little blue-eyed May's that night, 

When she stood by her dead mother's side. 

No — I will not say he was unkind ; 

But she had been used to love and praise. 
He was somewhat grave : perhaps, in truth, 
Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth 

Into all his stern and serious ways. 

She, who should have reigned a blooming flower, 

First in pride and honor as in grace — 
She, whose will had once ruled all around. 
Queen and darling of us all — she found 

Change enough in that cold, stately place. 



l68 A NEW MOTHER. 

Yet she would not blame him, even to me, 
Though she often sat and wept alone ; 
But she could not hide it near her death, 
When she said with her last struggling breath 
" Let my babies still remain my own !" 

I it was who drew the sheet aside. 
When he saw his dead wife's face. That test 
Seem'd to strike right to his heart. He said, 
In a strange, low whisper, to the dead, 
" God knows, love, I did it for the best !" 

And he wept — O yes, I will be just — 
When I brought the children to him there, 

Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes ; 

And he sooth'd them with his fond replies 
Bidding me give double love and care. 

Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake : 
Little Arthur, with his serious air ; 

May, with all her mother's pretty ways. 
Blushing, and at any word of praise 
Shaking out her sunny golden hair. 

And the little one of all — poor child ! 

She had cost that dear and precious life. 
Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady's name, 
When the baby's gloomy christening can«*e 

And he call'd her " Olga — like my wife." 

Save that time he never spoke of her 
He grew graver, sterner every day : 

And the children felt it, for they dropp'd 



A NEW MO THER, i g^ 

Low their voices, and their laughter stopp'd 
While he stood and watch'd them at their play. 

No, he never nam'd their mother's name. 
But I told them of her : told them all 

She had been, so gentle, good and bright ; 

And I always took them every night 
Where her picture hung in the great hall. 

There she stood : white daisy's in her hand, 
And her red lips parted as to speak 

With a smile ; the blue and sunny air 

Seem'd to stir her floating golden hair, 
And to bring a faint blush on her cheek. 

Well, so time pass'd on ; a year was gone, 
And Sir Arthur had been much away. 

When the news came ! I shed many tears 

When I saw the truth of all my fears 
Rise before me on that bitter day. 

Any one but her I could have borne! 
But my lady lov'd her as her friend. 

Through their childhood and their early youth, 

How she used to count upon the truth 
Of this friendship that would never end ! 

Older, graver than my lady was, 

Whose young, gentle heart on her relied, 

She would give advice, and praise, and blame, 
And my lady lean on Margaret's name, 

As her dearest comfort, help and guide. 



1 70 A NEW MO THER. 

I had never liked her, and I think 
That my lady grew to doubt her too 

Since her marriage ; for she named her less, 
Never saw her, and I used to guess 
At some secret wrong that I never knew. 

That might be or not. But now, to hear 
She would come and reign here in her stead, 
With the pomp and splendor of a bride : 
Would no thought reproach her in her pride 
With the silent memory of the dead ? 

Lo the day came, and the bells rang out. 
And I laid the children's black aside ; 
And I held each little trembling hand, 
As I strove to make them understand. 
They must greet their father's new-made bride. 

Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern, 
And his lady's eyes might well grow dim. 
When the children shrank in fear away, — 
Little Arthur hid his face, and May 
Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him. 

When Sir Arthur bade them greet " their mother," 
I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear 
How my little loving May replied. 
With her mother's pretty air of pride, — 
" Our dear mother has been dead a year !" 

Ah ! the lady's tears might well fall fast, 
As she kiss'd them, and then turned away. 



A NEW MOTHER, ij^ 

She might strive to smile or to forget, 
But I think some shadow of regret 
Must have risen to blight her wedding-day. 

She had some strange touch of self-reproach ; 

For she used to linger day by day 
By the nursery door or garden gate 
With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait 

Watching the children at their play. 

Bitt they always shrank away from her 
When she strove to comfort their alarms, 

And their grave, cold silence to beguile : 

Even little Olga's baby smile 
Quiver'd into tears when in her arms. 

I never could chide them ; for I saw 

How their mother's memory grew more deep 

In their hearts. Each night I had to tell 

Stories of her whom I loved so well 
When a child, to send them off to sleep. 

But Sir Arthur — O, this was too hard ! — 

He who had been always stern and sad 
In my lady's time, seem'd to rejoice 
Each day more ; and I could hear his voice 

Even, sounding younger and more glad. 

He might perhaps have blamed them ; but his wife 

Never failed to take the children's part 

She would stay him with her pleading tone, 
Saying she would strive, and strive alone. 

Till she gained each little wayward heart. 



i;» 



A NEW MOTHER, 

And she strove indeed, and seem'd to be 
Always waiting for their love, in vain ; 

Yet when May had most their mother's look. 
Then the lady's calm, cold accents shook 
With some memory of reproachful pain. 

Little May would never call her mother : 

So one day, the lady bending low, 

Kiss'd her golden curls, and softly said, 
" Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead, — 

Your dear mother used to call me so." 

She was gentle, kind, and patient too. 
Yet in vain : the children held apart. 
Ah, their mother's gentle memory dwelt 
Near them, and her little orphans felt 
She had the first claim upon their hearts. 

So three years pass'd ; then the war broke out ; 

And a rumor seemed to spread and rise ; 
First we guess'd what sorrow must befall, 
Then all doubt fled, for we read it all 

In the depths of her despairing ^y^s. 

Yes ; Sir Arthur had been called away 
To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife. 
Now he seemed to know with double pain 
The cold, bitter gulf that must remain 
To divide his children from his wife. 

Nearer came the day he was to sail, 
Deeper grew the coming woe and fear, 



A NEW MOTHER. 

When>one night, the children at my knee, 
Knelt to say their evening prayer to me, 
I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near. 

There he waited till their low " Amen ;" 
Stopp'd their rosy lips raised for " good night!" 
Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near, 
As he bade them stay with him, and hear 
Something that would make his heart more light 

Little Olga crept into his arm.s ; 

Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May 
Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes 
Lifted up in patient, calm surprise — 

I can almost hear his words to-day. 

" Years ago, my children, years ago, 
When your mother was a child, she came 
From her northern home, and here s'hq met 
Love for love, and comfort for regret, 
In one early friend, — you know her name. 

*' And this friend — a few years older — gave 
Such fond care, such love, that day by day 
The new home grew happ}', joy complete, 
Studies easier, and play more sweet, 
While all childish sorrows pass'd away. 

" And your mother — fragile, like my May — 
Leant on this deep love, — nor leant in vain. 
For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart !) 
Gave the sweet and took the bitter part. 
Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain. 



173 



1/4 



A NEW MOTHER. 

"Years pass'd on, and then I raw them first: 
It was hard to say which was inost fair, 
Your mother's bright and blushing face, 
Or the graver Margaret's stately grace ; 
Golden locks, or braided raven hair. 

" Then it happen'd by a strange, sad fate. 
One thought entered into each young soul ; 

Joy for one — if for the other pain ; 

Loss for one, — if for the other gain , 
One must lose, and one possess the whole. 

" And so this — this — what they car'd for — came 
And beiong'd to Margaret: was her own. 
But she laid the gift aside, would take 
Pain and sorrow for your mother's sake,- 
And none knew it but herself alone. 

** Then she travell'd far away, and none 
The strange mystery of her absence knew, 
Margaret's secret thought was never told : 
Even your mother thouvght her changed and cold, 
And for many years I thought so too. 

"She was gone ; and then your mother took 
That poor gift which Margaret cast aside : 

Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not — 

What it was had better be forgot ; 
It was just then she became my bride. 

** Margaret is my dear and honored wife, 
And I hold her so. But she can claim 



RICHARD DINGLES SPEECH. 

From your hearts dear ones, a loving debt 
I can neither pay, nor yet forget : 
You can give it in your mother's name," 

Next day was farewell — a day of tears ; 

Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away. 
And turned back to see his lady stand 
With the children clinging to her hand, 

Look'd as if it were a happy day. 



Ah, they lov'd her soon ! The little one 
Crept into her arms as to a nest ; 

Arthur always with her now ; and May 

Growing nearer to her every day : — 
Well, I loved my own dear lady best 

— Adelaide Procter 



175 



Richard Dingle's Speech, 



I am Master Richard Dingle, 

Tho' my comrades call me Dick, 

And I have a purpose single. 
Which I'll mention very quick. 

Every day I get a lecture 
For behaving very wrong ; 

And with wise looks some conjecture 
That I'll never get along. 



WORD PICTURES. 

But what's past my mind's construing 

Is, that all these busy elves 
Scold and thrash poor me for doing 

What they daily do themselves ! 

Master Meekly says 'tis fearful, 

To be crushing harmless flies, 
Yet can he, with gun, quite cheerful 

Seek the bird that bleeding lies. 

Others say : " Look here, Dick Dingle^ 

Love of gold is vain and vile." 
Yet when they detect its jingle 

Why, somehow they always smile. 

Doctor Blacktooth says tobacco 

Is not even fit for brutes, 
Yet to make his teeth still blacker 

Smokes the rankest of cheroots ! 

Now it seems to me the purest 

Seldom scold us when they teach, 
For they know the way that's surest 

Is to practice what they preach ! 

— Geo. M. Vickers, 



Word Pictures. 

In fulfillment of our promise in a former number, we will 
now endeavor to give a few ideas upon the important subject 
of " suiting the action to the word." Gestures are of two 
kinds, curved and straight, or emphatic and descriptive. 

In the preparation for emphatic gestures the hand should be 



f4^0RD I'ICTURES. lyy 

brought up on the oblique to diiTerent degrees of elevation, 
depending upon the force of emphasis, and then given a stroke 
on whatever line the sense requires. 

Descriptive gestures require the curved preparation, /. ^., 
the hand is brought in front of the body in the direction of the 
opposite shoulder, and then a graceful sweep is made in the 
line desired. 

In the preparation of a selection for recitation, the first 
requisite is to lay out your picture, and locate every object 
that is mentioned ; let it be firmly set in your mind so that 
you will not change the position of any portion of the scene 
during the course of the recitation. 

A very fine piece for practice upon this is the " Ballad of 
Breakneck," in the present number. Suppose you turn to it 
and imagine yourself to be standing upon the banks of the 
Hudson, in a position commanding the view down the river ; 
by examining the marked gestures you will be able to locate 
the entire scene. In the delivery of a piece, always try to see 
with your mind's eye what you are describing to your audi- 
ence, and if the object is supposed to be in sight, let the eye 
follow the gesture ; this, however, should be avoided in em- 
phatic gestures, or where the thing described is supposed to 
be hidden from view. 

The following rules will serve as a guide in deciding the 
directions that gestures should take : 

Front gestures express unity, personality^ direct address, and 
forward motion ; also refer to the future. 

Oblique gestures express plurality, general assertion, and 
are used in addressing numbers. 

Lateral gestures express vastness in time, numbers, space or 
idea ; also casting away, and negation. 

Backward gestures express remoteness in time or space. 

12 



1^8 THE MEETING AT WENDLETOWN: 

Descending gestures pertain to the will, express determina- 
tion and emphasis. 

Horizontal gestures pertain to the intellect, and are used in 
argument and address. 

Ascending gestures pertain to the imagination, and express 
exultation. 

— F. Lizzie Peirce. 



The Meeting at Wendletown. 

Twas early in the winter when first the talk began 

About the rights of women and the cruelty of man, 

Sech talk was new in Wendeltown, it scared us all to hear 

How ignorant we women was about our proper speer ; 

And how we'd toiled and pinched and saved, and nothing 

better knew. 
While our husbands did the thinking and held the purse- 
strings too. 

Miss Harper come and tell us this — a lecturer — ydM know. 
Lawme! howbeautiful she talked; her words jest seemed to flow 
As smooth and easy as the brook — she looked and moved so 

quiet ; 
But she fairly shook old Wendletown, she raised up sech a riot ; 
And when I heerd her tell about us women's *' wasted years," 
Although I'm old and tough, you'd think, I couldn't keep 

from tears. 

Soon all the wives and mothers too, began to see quite plain 
That jest to bake and churn and mend was laboring in vain ; 
While Mrs. Cap'n Brown she come and sez, sez she to me, 
" I'm going to have a high career," whatever that may be. 



THE MEETING AT WENDLETOWN. j^g 

But Miss Harper hed to leave us, so she advertised one day 
That she'd lecture in the school-house once before she went 

away. 
Well, the room was packed that evening and Miss Harper did 

her best, 
Her gift of speech was wonderful, — that all the men con- 
fessed — 
She soared,way up into the clouds, and back to earth again, 
And showed us most convincin'ly the worthlessness of men ! 

Her speech was drawing to a close, and she was jest a saying : 
" Dear sisters, spurn your tyrant, man, and scorn the part he's 

playing; 
Let him perform the menial tasks he's set for you so long, 
While yoii stand on the mountain tops, rejoicing free and 

strong !" 

Joe Hale was setting close at hand, right in the foremost row, 
And on his knees his little child, 'bout two year old or so : 
Joe was a poor, lone widower, his wife was dead and gone, 
His home was near the school-house, and I 'spose he felt 

forlorn. 
So he'd come and brought the baby, though the reason why I 

knew — 
His hired girl had slipped away to hear the lecture too. 
And jest that very minute, when the room was still as death, 
And you might have heerd a pin drop as Miss Harper stopped 

for breath, 

That little toddling thing slid from off her father's knee. 
Crept close up to the lecturer's desk and said : " Does 'ou 

love me?" 
Poor Joe jest turned a fiery red, and tried to snatch the child ; 



l80 TTIIE MELTING AT WENDLETOWN, 

But Miss Harper she leaned over and looked at him and 

smiled ; 
Then dropping all her papers, in the twinkling of an eye. 
She clasped the little one, who gave a wondering, happy cry, 
And laid her little curly head right down upon her breast, 
With both arms clinging round her neck, as if she'd found h^ 

rest! 

It's as fresh now as a picter, though it happened months ago, 
How she held that little baby girl a whispering soft and low ; 
Her eyes as bright and smiles a-coming and a-going. 
While all the sound that you could hear wa» jest the child 
a-crowing. 

Up to this time astonishment had kept the- folks all still ; 

But some one shouted out — " Three cheers and give 'em with 

a will ! 
It's plain enough Miss Harper has found her proper speer, 
And man, the tyrant's conquered! Now boys a rousing 

cheer!" 

That meeting broke up in %, tumult, but Joe was waiting 

there ; 
He's a manly, handsome fellow, and when I saw the pair 
Go walking off together, I sez, sez I, ** It needs no witch to 

tell 
What's coming next." And warn't I right ? Folks laughed 

and talked a spell. 
But we all danced at the wedding 1 Law ! how she settled 

down! 
There ain't no better housewife than Mrs. Hale in all this 

town. 



Petruchio's Widow. 

A Shakesperian Travesty 

In One Act. 

Characters. 

Mr. Romeo Montague, an unlucky suitor. 

Mr. Moses Shylock, a pawnbroker. 

Mrs. Kate Petruchio, a dashing widow. 

Miss Helena, an affectionate spinster. 

Mr§, Desdemona Othello, an unhappy neighbor. 

Mrs. Jessica Lorenzo, an ungrateful daughter. 

Scene: — A parlor; door pract. C. flat; window L. flat, 
open; table beneath window; rocking chair R. C. ; chairs at 
wings; Mrs. Petruchio discovered standing in door. 



Mrs. Pet. — 'Tis a good thing that Jessica has finished dust- 
ing this parlor ; no nonsense will I tolerate from man, woman, 
or child within this domicile. {Enters and throws herself in 
rocking chair) Petruchio ran affairs while living ; but, in his 
demise — ^poor fellow — I re-inherited the freedom of my tongue. 
[Calls) Jessica! 

Jessica {from without). — I am here ; please wait ; don't 
scold ; here I am. {Enters L) Your pleasure, madam. 

Mrs. Pet. — Have you washed the front steps, scrubbed the 
pavement and wrung out the clothes that were wet by the 
rain ? 

18j 



Ig2 PETRUCHiaS WIDOW. 

Jessica. — Alas ! all these, and more, have I done. I hav<? 
picked the beans, mixed the batter for muffins, put the mack 

erel in soak for breakfast, and 

Mrs. Pet. — Enough ! Why thus parade before my fancy's 
eye the coarse details of cookery. I tell you 'tis scarce an hour 
since I ate — the subject is distasteful. 

Jessica. — But, madam, you asked me what 

Mrs. Pet. (stamps foot). — Silence ! 

Jessica. — You are dreadfully cross. When I came to you 
and told you the story of my life, how I eloped with poor, dear 
Lorenzo, who was all a woman could ask, while the money I 

took from father lasted 

Mrs. Pet. — And who hastily departed simultaneously with 

the last ducat 

Jessica. — Do not wound my spirit. I repeat, you promised 

to give me shelter, to shield me, treat me kindly 

Mrs. Pet. — Shut up ! move ! Lorenzo, you say, has gone to 
Padua to seek a position as pen-wiper to Ballario ; believe it 
not ; he is in Venice suing for a divorce before the Duke. Un- 
happy woman, move ! 

Jessica (aside). — As Jessica Shy lock I was envied as a rich 

man's child ; as Jessica Lorenzo I am 

Mrs. Pet.- — What's the use of whining ; you will never see 
Lorenzo more. 
Jessica. — 

There is a tide in the affairs of men — 

If men, then women, too — 

Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune ; 

Omitted, all the voyage of their life 

Is bound in shallows and in miseries ; 

And we must take the current when it serves, 

Or lose our ventures 1 



FETRUCHIO'S WIDOW. jg; 

I leave for Venice this very night ! 

Mrs. Pet. — Away to the kitchen and put on the beans ! 

Jessica (looks off L). 

Mrs. Pet. — 

Alas ! how is it with you, 
That you do bend your eye on vacancy 
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? 
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep .' 
Jessica (points Z).— T. O. M. 
Mrs. Pet.— T. O. M. ? Tom who ? 

Jessica.— No, no ! The — old — man ; my father, Moses Shy- 
lock, is creeping up the gravel path. Hide me ! Do not be- 
tray me 1 
Mrs. Pet.— 

Though all the world should crack their duty. 
And throw it from their soul ; though perils did 
Abound as thick as thought could make them, and 
Appear in forms more horrid ; yet would I 
Be true ; yea, true as truth itself, 
And stand unshaken yours, — 
Away to the kitchen and you are safe ! 
Jessica. — I love my father, but I fear his righteous rage. 
Mrs. Pet. — Stay, then ; confess and ask his pardon. 
Jessica (Shakes head sadly and exits R). 
Mrs. Pet. — 

What ! gone without a word ? 

Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak ; 

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. 

[Enter Shylock, door F^ 

Mrs. Pet. — -How now, Shylock? What news among the 
merchants ? What will you loan upon my ulster ? 



184 PETRUClIiaS WIDOW, 

Shylock. — Take it to my brother Solomon, on the Rialto ; 
he'll give you liberally and charge you naught for camphor. 

Mrs. Pet. — Have you heard from your daughter, and your 
son-in-law, Lorenzo, lately? 

Shylock.— No, no ; not I. All hope to find her long hath 
fled. One-half the jewels that she took no doubt Lorenzo 
pawned ; and yet the thankless knave sent me not e'en a ticket 
to redeem the goods ! x 

Mrs. Pet. — 'Tis said, for satisfaction's sake, you now refuse 
to grant renewal of your loans, e'en though the interest there- 
on be paid; ay, that Antonio, the poor butcher, will lose the 
meats that now are forfeit. Why take his venison? Wilt 
answer, Shylock ? 

Shylock. — 

I hate him, for he is a Christian ; 

But more, for that, in low simplicity, 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 

The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 

He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails 

Even there where merchants most do congregate, 

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe 

If I forgive himo 

Mrs. Pet. — If I were his wife you would not thus berate the 
man. If Petruchio could speak, he'd say so too. 

Shylock. — I seek my truant child; I heard she lived, not 
long since, hereabouts. 

Mrs. Pet. — Excuse me, Mr. Shylock, call again. 

Shylock. — Have you any old garments to sell ? 



PETRUCHIO'S WIDOW, ig^ 

Mrs. Pet. — Leave, and call again ; two neighbors now ap- 
proach who may mistake the object of your visit. Go I Leave 
by the side door. 
Shylock. — 

O father Abraham, what these Christians are, 
Whose own hard dealings teach them to suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Adieu ! \Exit Z.] 

Mrs. Pet (looking L). — O, you miserly old money-grabber, 
if you think I will tell on poor Jessica, you know but little of 
Kate Petruchio ! Go ! go ! go ! you old parent, you stingy 
father, and con over your collaterals of watches, fiddles, bibles 
and pistols ! 

[Enter Miss Helena and Mrs. Othello, door F. ; they 
pause and observe Mrs. Petruchio.] 

If I was your wife wouldn't I take the kinks out of those 
grizzly locks, though ! 

Mrs. Othello {to Helena). — What should this mean ? 
Helena. — O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 
Mrs. Pet.— Ah, ladies, kind, sweet neighbors, how glad I 
am to see you here ! 

Mrs. Othello. — Do you have any pain here ? (Tonciccs 
head). 

Helena. — Is not the plumb-bob of your mental plumb-line 
out of plumb ? 
Mrs. Pet. — 

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. 
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
And makes as healthful music : It is not madness 
That I have uttered : bring me to the test, 
And I the matter will re-word, which madness 
Would gambol from. 



1 86 PETRUcirias widow. 

Saw you not that animated fjaberdinc descend my garden 
path ? 

Mks. Otiikmx). — You do not mean our mutual uncle, Moses 
Shylock ; from whom, liowcvcr, I never borrow. 
Helena. — Nor T. 

Mrs. Petrucmio. — Do you mean to insinuate that I presume 
'i|)on his kin,shi[) to oI)l,iiii loans ? 

Mrs. Otiikllo. — What have I done tlialthou dar'st waj» thy 
tongue in noise .so rude against me ? 
Helena. — Hist ! he comes ! 
Mrs. Pktkucmio. — Who comes? 
Helena. — My Romeo. 

Mrs, OruiCLLo. — Your Komco ! Forsooth you have not 
spoken to him more than twice. 
Romeo (W^z/Z/fV//, a///^'v>/ (,»-). — 

"Oh, meet nu^ by UKx^nli^dit alone, 
And then I will tell you a tale 
Must be told in the moonlight alone, 
In the ^rove " 

TTklk.na. — 

If music b(* the ^(^(^(\ ot" lovi\ sing on, 
Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, 
riie ;i|)|)('lil(" may sicki'u and so die. 

Mks. Vv.w — 

This music mads me ; let it sound no more, 
For though it have helped mad men to tlu>ir wits, 
Tn m<-, it seems, it will make wise: men mad. 

RoMi'.o {^ivithont, .v////;.v).-— 

' Oh, med \\w by moonlight a lone I " 



/'A / A' i ( ■///() .s li //)()l K 1 ^ ' 

Helena. — 

That strain again ; it had a dying fall ; 
Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing and giving odor. 

Romeo {zuithotit, sings). — 
' Yes, meet — ys, meet — yes, meet me by moonlight a — lone." 
Mrs. Pet. — Horrible! monstrous ! was ever sound so nerve- 
destroying heard save from the larynx of a dying calf? I de- 
spise these daylight serenades. 
Mrs. Othello. — 

The woman that hath no music in herself, 
Nor is not woo'd with concord of sweet sounds. 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; 
The motions of her spirit are dull as night, 
And her affections dark as Erebus : 
Let no such dame be trusted ! 
Mrs. Pet. — Ha ! this is more than I can brook ; my 
tongue's my own to wag it as I will, therefore attempt not to 

criticise my criticisms I repeat, the fellow sings like a 

Scandinavian bag-pipe. 

Helena. — Ladies, pray be still ! He may hear your dreadful 
comments. 

\Knock heard at door.'] 
Tis he I 

Mrs. Othello. — Let him not in until I depart! If Mr. 
Othello should happen to step in and find me in company with 
this gallant youth his jealousy would know no bounds ! 
[Knock repeated^] 
Mrs. Pet. — Nonsense ! I hope he does come, I'd like to give 
him my opinion of jealous husbands — 



iSS FETKUCIIiaS IVWOIV. 

Foul jealousy ! that turnest love divine 
To joyless dread, and mak'st the loving heart 
With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine. 
And feed itself with self-consuming smart ; 
Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art ! 
Romeo (without). — I suppose there's no one home. {Knocks), 
Hello ! anybody in ? 

Helena {opens door). — Mr. Romeo ! how delightful this sur- 
prise. 

Romeo {enters). — To me this is a pleasure sweet, sweet be- 
yond comparison. {Aside.) Her looks do argue her replete 
with modesty. 

Helena. — It gives me wonder, great as my content, to see 
you here before me. 

Mrs. Pet. — 

Sir, you are very welcome to our house : 
It must appear in other ways than words, 
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. 

Mrs. Othello. — 

A hundred thousand welcomes ; I could weep. 
And I could laugh ; I am light and heavy — welcome. 
[Looks about cautiously^ 
Yea, I could laugh and weep {aside) It entirely depends 
upon the movements of Mr. Othello. He's so jealous. 

Mrs. Pet. — Be seated, friend Romeo ; Miss Helena will en- 
tertain you while Mrs. Othello and I see that the festive 
board is spread below. Come, away to the pantry ! 
[Exit followed by Mrs. Othello.] 
RoMEO {places a chair for Helena). 
{Aside) There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, 
Nay, her foot speaks. {Aloud) Be seated, miss. 



PETRUCHiaS WIDOW. 189 

Helena. — Thank you, sir. {Aside^ I know not why I love 
this youth. 
Romeo. — 

Helena, I love thee ; by my life I do ; 
I swear by that which I will lose for thee, 
To prove him false that says I love thee not ! 
Helena. — Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say ay, 
^nd I will take thy word. 
Romeo {takes chair). — 
O happy fair ! 

Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue's sweet air. 
More tunable than lark to shepherds' ear. 
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. 
Helena. — You have bereft me of all words. 
Romeo {aside). — 

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand I 
O that I were a glove upon that hand. 
That I might touch that cheek. ! 
[Knock at door'\ 
[Aloud,) Ah, me ! for aught that I could ever read; 
Could ever hear by tale or history, 
The course of true love never did run smooth. 
\_Rises and opens door^ 
[Enter Shylock with old garments on his arm."] 
Helena {rising). — 

His horrid image doth unfix my hair, 

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 

Romeo. — 

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us ! 
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned. 



lijO PETRUCHiaS WIDOW, 

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell; 
Be thy intents wicked or charitable 
Thou comest in such a questionable shape 
That I will speak to thee ! 
Shylock {to Helena). — 

I do defy him, and I spit at him ; 
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain, 
Which to maintain, I would allow him odds, 
And meet him where I tried to run a-foot ; 
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps. 
[Throws garments on floor 7\ 
Helena. — 

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears 
With this abundance of superfluous breath ? 

Romeo. — 

He gives the bastinado with his tongue ; 
Our ears are cudgel'd ; not a word of his. 
But buffets better than a fist of France : 
Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words 
Since I first called my brother's father dad. 
Shylock. — Peace ! one word : in yonder pile, for little more 
than half the cost, a seal-skin wrap and overcoat may grace 
your youthful forms. 

Romeo (to Shylock in undertone). — I pray thee, gentle sig- 
nor of the Gilded Balls, say naught before this maid that will 
reveal the fact that half my garments now repose upon your 
shelves. 

Helena {to Shylock). — To-night I'll steal into thy place of 
trade, and, under cover of the evening's shades, examine well 
the seal-skin sack whereof you speak. Say nothing now, sir ; 
mum's the word I 



PETRUCHiaS IVIDOW, ic^i 

Shylock. — ^Tis in mjr memory locked, and you yourself 

shall keep the key of it. 

\Enter Jessica, Mrs. Petruchio and Mrs. Othello.] 

Jessica. — Oh ! Oh ! {jumps behind Mrs. Petruchio). 

Mrs. Othello. — Hide me ! Save me ! 

Mrs. Pet. — Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening 
me, thou man of loans. Be quiet sweet Mrs. Othello, thy hus- 
band is not here. 

Mrs. Othello. — Mr. Romeo, what brings this, our general 
kinsman, here upon the scene ? 

Romeo. — His business calls him here. 

Mrs. Pet. — Romeo, put him out: mind not his glaring 
eyes, but put him hence ! 

ROMEO.^ — 

Prythee, peace ! 

I dare do all that may become a man] 

Who dares do more is none I 

Mrs. Pet.— 

What seek'st thou ? 

Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide theet 

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; 

Thou hast no speculation in thy eyes 

Which thou dost glare with ! 

Helena (to Shylock). — 

Win her with gifts if she respect not v/ords ; 

Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, 

More quick than words do move a woman's mind. ' 

Mrs. Pet. — See here, old man, just tell me what you 
want? 



ig2 PETRUCHiaS WIDOW. 

Shylock. — 

My daughter ! O my ducats ! O my daughter ! 
Fled with a Christian ! O my, my Christian ducats ! 
Justice ! the law ! my ducats and my daughter ! 
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! find the girl ! 
Romeo. — Poor man ! 

Helena. — Why not advertise her in the papers ? 
Mrs. Othello. — Or, like my husband, employ a private de- 
tective ? 

Shylock {to Mrs. Petruchio). — Woman, tell me where to 
find my child ! Lorenzo, he has been set fi*ee by theVenice court's 
decree. If the proof you wish to see, take the train for the 
city by the sea. 

Mrs. Pet. — I know not where Jessica Shylock lives, nor care 
to hear your family cares. 

Shylock. — 

A serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face, 

Did ever dragon keep so fair a case ? 

Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical ! 

Just opposite to what thou seem'st — 

I see my daughter's head behind thy ear, 

Ay, behind the wig that doth surmount thy head ! 

Mrs. PET.^Me wear a wig ? O wrinkled Jew, take back thy 
child, whom only kindness taught me to conceal. No n>ore 
courage now remains : away with her ! In saying that I v^af 
a wig, you crush my heart, and now I fain would be alone^ 

Jessica {embraces Shylock). — Father, forgive me I 

Romeo. — See ! the Jew relents ! 

Helena. — O gentle Romeo I 



PETRUCHiaS WIDOW, 



193 



Mrs. Othello. — I hope I shall get home before the Moor 

returns ! 

Shylock {takes Mrs. Petruchio's hand) 

You are a widow, and I without a wife. 

Seek, vainly seek, for joy in life — 

Will you, in short, old Shylock wed? 
Mrs. Pet. — Think you, sir, my reason's fled. ( Withdraw 
i)ig hand indignantly) Marry you ? Never ! Sooner would 
I see you hanged. 

Shylock. — But are you happy? 

Romeo. — Happy in this, she is not yet so old 

But she may learn ; and happier than this, 

She is not bred so dull but she can learn; 

Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 

Would ne'er commit itself to yours. 
Shylock. — Go to, and why ? 
Mrs. Othello. — 

Oh ! sir, you are too old ; 

Nature, in you, stands on the very 

Verge of her confine. 
Helena. — 

Our hostess needs no fossil staff 

On which to lean through hfe ; 

The dame in scorn does at you laugh. 

Go, seek an older wife ! 
All. — Yes, go ! {pounding a?td pushing him) Go ! go ! go ! 
Shylock {ru?ts to centre and kneels). — Mercy! (All take 
positions) 

[Curtain.] 

-^George M, Vtckers, 
13 



* Tlie Proud Flag of Freedom. 

The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold 

How cluster about it the glories of years, 
As skyward and westward, 'mid purple and gold. 

In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears, 
America's token of faith never broken. 

Sweet signal that flutters o'er mountain and sea ; 
That mutely repeats what our fathers have spoken, 

That tells the oppressed they may come and be free ! 

O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight 

The breast of the wand'rer who meets thee afar; 
What home-visions come with the gladdening sight, 

And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe and each star^ 
Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever, 

Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore ! 
Tho* fairer the clime, an American never 

Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more. 

Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace, 

So awfully grand in the dread crash of war, 
Be ever unfaded 'till nations shall cease, 

While there's room in the blue for another bright star : 
From danger defending, still onward, ascending ; 

The hope of mankind and the envy of none : 
E Pluribus Unum, our motto transcending, 

Till earth's constellations are blended in one ! 

-—Geo. M. Vickers. 

* By permission of J. C. Beckel, Esq., owner of the copyright. 
194 



Lost in the Mountains. 

See you that^ yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds 
High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen, 
Now lost^ to view amid the shelving crags 
And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass, 
Called, hereabouts. The Devil's Trail. Just where 
We stand, ^I stood one Autumn day, and heard 
The legend from an aged mountaineer. 
And, as my mem'ry serves me, word for word. 
Like this the story ran : 

Mark Lysle, a rich, 
Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child. 
Long years agone, lived in that house^ whose red 
Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though 
You see a light, blue plume of smoke above 
The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit 
About the hearth and watch its glow, for that 
Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out 
One stormy night, never to burn again. 
For miles and miles,^ which way you went, the fame 
Of Lysle would greet your ear ; his courtesies, 
His open house and hospitalities. 
Were themes discussed no less than were his quick 
Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce, 
Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to 
Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child. 
Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair. 
And read the truth within her hazel eyes, 

I. Ind. A. O. 2 Drop hand, 3 D. O. 4 Left H. O. $ B. H. O. 



IC)6 i-OST IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

Deemed her in ev'ry^ trait of character 
His antipode, his very opposite — 
A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle. 
Together lived they in thaf red-roofed house. 
He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns : 
She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient, 
So like her mother — an exotic frail, 
A Northern lily 'neath a Southern sun. 

One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched* 

Far west from Lysle's estate ; whose negro huts 

Gleamed white amid the evergreens ; the man 

Her father called his chosen friend, this man. 

Her senior by a score of years, and ill 

Of feature, sought the maiden's hand, nay, claimed 

It by a compact with her father made 

Before her mother's death. But Maud, sweet Maud, 

Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound. 

Whose only statute was her father's will. 

Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light 

Of something that she might escape, a thing 

She might avoid, that would not come to pass ; 

As those condemned to death will hope when hope 

Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought, 

And comfort took in hoping that it would 

Not be ; and though his would-be gallantries 

Oft filled her with disgust,^ and oft provoked 

A loathing in her breast, she hated not. 

Once, on a summer day, with book in hand, 
Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch, 



6H. O. 7LeftH.O. 8 H. Sw. 9 V. H.O. 



LOST J y THE MOUNTAINS. j^? 

Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed : 

A sudden cry aroused them both in time 

To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash^^ 

Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet 

They stood amazed some field hands moving slow. 

Came up the shaded walk^^ bearing between 

Their swarthy forms the helpless body of 

A man. With almost woman's tenderness 

Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth 

Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick 

A surgeon, nor would rest until assured 

His uninvited guest was doing well, 

As well as one with broken limb could do. 

Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home, 

Was thrust by fate upon a stranger's care. 

The leaves*^ have lost their summer hue of green; 

The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low ; 

The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings 

Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud 

Stand side by side^^; the setting sun shines full 

Upon their faces^^ : pale is his and sad, 

And hers all tenderness and sympathy : 

His time to go has come; this night will be 

His last beneath her father's roof In two 

Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts 

Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly. 

Behind a tree^^ two other forms crouch low; 

Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale. 

They glide away^^ unseen. 

""ToH. Sw. iiH.F. 12 A. O. 13H. F. 14 B. H. F. IS Left H. O. 16 

LeftH.Sw, 



igS LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

That night when all 
Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle, 
In tones that fell like death upon the ears 
Of those who heard him speak, announced 
It as his will,^^ that on the coming day 
His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend ; 
"And, sir," said he to Clair, "as you must deem 
It time to go, I shall not press you to 
Remain, but bid you speed upon youf way," 
And then, with haughty bow, strode out^® 

" Farewell," 
Until we meet again — " " No,^^ Maud, w^ must 
Not say good-bye ; to leave you now would be 
To part forever," then young Clair*^ voice f*^nk 
Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss 
In haste imprinte,d on her brow, he left 
The room, and tnen the house. 

The tall, oW cIocU 
That in the hallway stood, was striking nine 
As Maud stole out^^ into the night. Dark cloud^*• 
Were rising^^ in the west. The lightning flashed 
From out the distant sky;^^ the thunder boomed 
And rattled off in echoes 'mong the hills p** 
The black mass rising soon obscured^^ the stars 
O'erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm 
Had burst. " To wed the hand and not the heart 
Is sin, far greater than to disobey. 
May God forgive me if I err: my heart-^ 

17 D. F. 18 H. Sw. 19 Turn to Right. 20 Turn to Left. 21 H. F. 2 J 
Raise hand P. H. L. 23 H. L. 24 H. Sw. 25 V. A. O. 26 Hand on heart. 



LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS. jgg 

Must be my guide." Thus murmured Maud, as all 

Alone she sped across the fields to reach 

Yon rugged pass^ where Clair had gone to wait, 

That when she came they both might mount his steed, 

And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they 

Would choose that fearful path for flight. 

The sun 
Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked^^ 
With gems. The storm had gone ; the night had gone, 
And she had gone, the star^^ of Mark Lysle's home, 
Gone — ^to return no more. 

The dark night through. 
Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff 
Had watched and listened for his promised bride ; 
Had bended to the rock his ear,^*^ had called. 
Loud as he dared, "Maud! I am waiting, Maud!" 
But never came reply. 

Again, "Here, Maud!" 
Then sobbed and sighed the wind,^^ all else was still. 
At dawn of day, and fearing that she could 
Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode 
Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst. 
He scarce had reached the narrow valley road 
Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt^^ or die. 
Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore. 
And charged him with the maiden's death or worse. 
"She's lost! O God,^ she's lost ! Come, follow me!" 
Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse 
In terror bore him up^ the winding path. 

27 A O. 28 P. D. O. 29 Point up. 30 Bend over. 31 B. H. O. and turn 
them to P. 32 P. Ind. H. F. 33 Raise eyes. 34 A. F. 



200 LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

"I come!" shrieked out his rival, Dale; "I come!" 
And off he dashed/^ his livid face drawn grim 
With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then 
The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed. 

A cry! 
Again a cry of mortal pain was heard ! 
The throng pressed up, and round^^ a jutting point, 
Till came in view a level breadth^^ of rock 
That shelved and overhung a sheer descent^ 
Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor's work 
On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair 
Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down^* 
The deep abyss. In horror peered they all 
Below, where lay the object of his gaze — 
The white, the lifeless form of Maud. 

The spell 
Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri's lips. 
With curb he drew^*^ his horse erect ; he threw 
His mantel o'er its head, struck deep his spurs, 
And with the shout, "My bride!" leaped down to death.**' 

And to this day the story still is told 

Of trav'lers, who, belated on the pass, 

Have heard, when softly sobbed the wind, a voice 

Call tenderly and low, "I'm waiting, Maud! — 

Here, Maud! — Is that you, Maud?" 

— George M. Vickers^ 



35 A. F. 36 A. O. 37 P. H. O. 38 P. D. O. 39 Point down. 40 Draw 
rein with left hand. 41 D. F. 



Maiden Song. 

Long ago and long ago, and long ago still, 
There dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill. 
One was tall Meggan, and one was dainty May, 
But one was fair Margaret, more fair than I can say, 
Long ago and long ago. 

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when May pulled 

the brier. 
Half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw 

nigher; 
Half the fishes of the stream would dart up to admire : 
But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy, hot aflame, 
All the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came 
To her hand more soft than snow. 

Strawberry leaves and May-dew in brisk morning air, 

Strawberry leaves and May-dew make maidens fair. 

" I go for strawberry leaves," Meggan said one day : 

" Fair Margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, 

May; 
Up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way, 
You and I are used to go." 

So these two fair sisters went with innocent will 
Up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill : 
While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen, 
Like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen. 
Fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean, 
Graceful as an ivy bough, born to cling and lean, 
Thus she sat to sew and sing. 

20I 



202 MAIDEN SONG. 

When she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door; 
When she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor ; 
When she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill, 
Warbling out its heart of love, warbling, warbling still 
With pathetic pleadings low. 

Light-foot May, with Meggan, sought the choicest spot, 
Clothed with thyme, alternate grass ; then, while day waxed 

hot. 
Sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play ; 
The loveliest maidens near or far, when Margaret was away, 
Who sat at home to sing and sew. 

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their 

hair, 
Creeping things among the grass stroked them here ai\d there ; 
Meggan piped a merry note, a fitful, wayward lay. 
While shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry May ; 
Honey-smooth the double flow. 

Sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame. 
All on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came; 
Looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west. 
But sat him down at Meggan's feet as love-bird on his nest, 
And wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed ; 
She sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast ; 
So he loved her, listening so. 

She sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his 

tongue ; 
Hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung. 



MAID EX SOXG. 20'' 

Then he spoke up from his place simple words and true : 
" Scanty goods have I to %\^^y scanty skill to woo ; 
But I have a will to work and a heart for you : 
Bid me stay or bid me go." 

Then Meggan mused within herself: " Better be first with 
him, 

Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, who shines my bright- 
ness dim, 

Forever second where she sits, however fair I be : 

I will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me ; 

I will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree, 
At home where kids and fatlings grow. 

Sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look, 
White lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd's 

crook : 
He turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south, 
But knelt right down to May, for love of her sweet-singing 

mouth ; 
Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hillside 

drought; 

Forgot himself for weal or woe. 

Trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice 
In a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences : 
Clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees. 
Wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees: 
Love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love, 
Yet cannot keep her secret safe, but cooes and cooes thereof; 
Thus the notes rang loud or low. 



204 MAIDEN SONG. 

He hung breathless on her breath ; speechless, who listened 

well; 
Could not speak or think, or wish till silence broke the spell. 
Then he spoke and spread his hands, pointing here and there : 
" See my sheep, and see my lambs, twin lambs which they 

bare. 
All myself I offer you, all my flocks and care, 

Your sweet song hath moved me so." 

In her fluttered heart young May mused a dubious while : 
** If he loves me as he says " — her lips curved with a smile: 
" Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine like the moon ; 
If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon : 
At cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon. 
Said Meggan, '' Yes ; " May said not " No." 

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song, 
Awhile sat silent, then she thought : "' My sisters loiter long." 
That sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxed 

great : 
" Surely," she thought within herself, " My sisters loiter late." 
She rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to 

wait. 
And heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate ; 
Then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden 

gate. 

Leaned on the rail and waited so. 

The slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning 

fair. 
Like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair. 



MAIDEN SONG. 205 

While her fece lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy 

white. 
Thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night, 
Looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right, 
Flashing like fire-flies to and fro. 

Waiting thus in weariness, she marked the nightingale, 
Telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale. 
Then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the ,bird : 
Then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were nevef 
heard 

From any bird when Spring's in blow. 

The king of all that country, coursing far, coursing neaf. 
Curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear ; 
All his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer, 
With his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand, 
Down he fell at Margaret's knees. Lord, King of all that land. 
To her highness bending low. 

Every beast and bird, and fish came mustering to the sound, 
Every man and every maid from miles of country round : 
Meggan on her herdsman's arm, with her shepherd, May ; 
Flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hillside 

way; 
No foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too gray, 
Some were swift and none were slow. 

So Margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth ; 
Sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth. 
Sang up fishes of the deep — all breathing things that move, 
Sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love ; 
Sang together friend and foe; 



2o6 LECTURE BY ONE OF THE SEX. 

Sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet, 

Sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet. 

But when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes 

died, 
He stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride. 
So three maids were wooed and won in a brief May-tide, 
Long ago and long ago. 

— Christina G. Rosseiti 



Lecture by One of the Sex. 

My antiquated hearers, male and female. Squenchin' my 
native modesty which is natural to the weaker vessels of 
whom I am which, I feel impelled to speak to you this even- 
in' on the subject of woman— her origin, her mission, her des- 
tiny. A subject, bein' as I am a woman myself, I hev given 
much attention to. 

Man, my hearers, claims to be the superior of woman ! Is 
it so ? and ef so, in what, and how much ? 

Wuz he the fust creation ? He wuz, my hearers, but what 
does that prove? 

Man wuz made fust, but the experience gained in makin* 
man wuz applied to the makin' of a betterer and more finerer 
bein' of whom I am a sample. 

Nachur made man but saw in a brief space of time that he 
could n't take keer of himself alone, and so he made a woman 
to take keer uv him, and that's why we wuz created ; tho' 
seein' all the trouble we hev, I don't doubt that it would hev 
been money in our pockets if we hedn't been made at all. 

Imagine, my beloved hearers, Adam afore Eve wuz created! 
Who sewed on his shirt buttons? Who cooked his beef- 



LECTURE B V ONE OF THE SEX. 207 

steak ? Who made his coffee in the momin* and did his 
washin' ? 

He wuz mizzable, he wuz, — he must have boarded out and 
eat hash I 

But when Eve come, the scene changed. Her gentle hand 
soothed his achin' brow when he come in from a hard day's 
work. She hed his house in order ; she hed his slippers and 
dressin' gown ready, and after tea he smoked his meerschaum 
in peace. 

Men, cruel, hard-hearted men, assert that Eve wuz the cause 
of his expulsion from Eden — that she plucked the apple and 
give him half; oh, my sisters, it's true, it's too true, but what 
uv it ? 

It proves fustly, her goodness. Had Adam plucked the 
apple, if it had been a good one, he'd never a thought of his 
wife at home, but would have gobbled it down himself, and 
perhaps have taken her the core. 

Eve, angel that we all are, thought of him and went halvers 
with him. 

Secondly^ it wuz the means of good anyhow. It introduced 
death into the world, which separated 'em while they still hed 
love for each other. 

I appeal to the sterner sex present to-night. S'posin* all of 
you had been fortunate enough to win such virgin souls as me, 
could you endure charms like mine for an eternity. If I had 
a husband, I know he'd bless Eve for introducin' death into the 
world. 

Woman is man's equal, but is she occupyin' her true speer ? 
Alas, not 1 We are deprived of the ballot, we ain't allowed to 
make stump speeches, or take part in politics. Is it right ? How 
many men vote who know what they are votin' for ? 

I demand the ballot. I want to take part in torchlight pro- 



2o8 LECTURE BY ONE OF THE SEX, 

cessions ! I want to demonstrate my fitness for governing by 
coming home elevated on election nights. I demand the right 
of going to Congress. I want to assume that speer which 
nachur fitted me for equally with man, but from which mascu- 
line jealousy has thus far excluded me. 

There hev been women in the world who have done some- 
thing. There was the Queen of Sheba, who was excelled 
only by Solomon, and all that surpassed her in him wuz that 
he could support 3,000 women. 

Bless Solomon's heart! I'd like to see him do it now. 
Where could he find a house big enough to hold 'em with 
their dozen Saratoga trunks apiece ? 

How shall we gain our lost rights and assume that position 
in the world to which we are entitled to ? 

Oh, my sisters, these is a question upon which I have cogi- 
tated long and vigorously. 

We might do it by pisonin' all the men, but we would be 
robbed of one-half of our triumph, for they wouldn't be alive 
to see how well we did things without 'em. 

We might resolve to do no more of the degradin' work they 
have imposed onto us. But if we didn't, who would ? 

One week's eatin* what they would cook, would sicken 
any well-regulated woman, and besides, they might not let us 
eat at all. 

Matrimony, thus far in the world's history, has been our only 
destiny. 

I am glad I had always strength of mind enough to resist 
all propositions leadin' to my enslavement. 

I had too much respect for myself to make myself the slave 
of a man. 

Wunst, indeed, I might have done so, but the merest acci- 
dent in the world saved me. A young man in my younger 



ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD. 



209 



days, when the bloom wuz on the peach, ere sleepless nights 
spent in meditatin' on the wrongs of my sex had worn fur- 
rows into these wunst blushing cheeks, a young man come 
to our house, and conversed sweetly with me. 

It wuz my fust beau, and oh, my sisters, had he that night 
asked me to be his'n, I should have been weak enough to have 
said Yes, and I would have been a washer of dishes and a 
mender of stockin's for life. 

But fate saved me ! He did'nt ask me. 

— Revised by F. Lizzie Peirce. 



Enguerrande's Child. 

La Comtesse Marie holds festival 

In the fairest nook of her fair demesne. 

For courtly gallants and smiling dames 
To mimic the sports of the village green, 

In hats ^ la paysanne looped up with gems. 
And rustic kirtles of satin sheen. 

But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May, 
Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press. 

And sits on her floral throne distrait, 

Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess 

What troubles this heiress, free to choose 

From the proudest peers of the haute noblesse. 

She sighs — and a suitor the sigh repeats ; 

Again — and another bends over her chair. 
For every mood of a lady charms 

When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair ; 
She speaks — and the murmur of talk is hushed. 

And they throng around with expectant air : 
14 



2IO ENGUERRANDKS CHILD, 

** Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance — 
Shall our sport take sober cast to-night ? 

And gathering under the fragrant limes, 
Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright, 

Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim, 
Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?** 

Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale 
To please the layde, has racked his brain ; 

While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache, 
His last duello fights o'er again, 

And fancies that Marie's cheek grows pale 
As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain. 

But on one tall figure, that stands aloof. 
The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall : 

And hast thou nothing to tell ? '* she asks, 
" Canst thou from the past no deed recall, 

That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood f 
Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.'" 

Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows, 
A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned^ 

A man more prized in the camp than court, 
Steps into the circle and glances round ; 

And scornful eyes on his boldness frown. 

But Marie has smiled, and he holds his gro»ind 

What boots the rest if she bids him speak ? 

What matter who lists if he gains her ear ? 
The shaft of malice is launched in vain, 

That aims at the stranger a barbed sneer. 
And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie 

Unchecked may flout him while she is near. 



ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD. 2\\ 

He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles. 
Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote 

Till treasured mem'ries awake — and then 
His full lip quivers, and swells his throat. 

And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft 

It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle's note. 

And thus le capitaine tells his tale : 

" Revolt and faction had cursed our land— 

Tonnerre ! that Frenchmen should be such curs I 
Our city walls was were but poorly manned ; 

I — sous lieutenant — a boy in years ; 

Our brave commander, Jaques Enguerrande. 

" We had one treasure, we soldiers, then— 

Enguerrande's daughter, a happy child ; 
She had no mother, but fifty slaves. 

By her winning looks and ways beguiled-— 
Great bearded fellows — were at her call, 

And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled. 

" One night — sharp— sudden— -resistless broke 

The storm upon us : from every den 
The lawless rabble came howling forth. 

And we — ah, blind ! not to learn till then. 
That in all that city we loved so well, 

There was but one handful of loyal men I 

** For life, for honor we fought, and still 

Our foes increased as the tumult spread. 
Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande 

I stood till we fell together — he, dead ; 
I, wounded — ^how badly, these scars reveal ; 

And then our last man, in his terror, fled. 



212 ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD, 

** Over our bodies the crowd tramped on, 

Nor recked if 'twere brothers their feet defiled ; 

The city was all their own, and the greed 
Of plunder had made them mad or wild ; 

And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh, 

Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande's child 

" At that sound the blood to my heart returns. 
And fiercely I struggle on to my knees ! 

Never must Enguerrande's orphaned one 
Fall into such miscreant hands as these ! 

To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob 

Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees I 

" Doubling upon them, and first to gain 
The little chamber wherein she slept. 

Where, roused from repose by the horrid din, 
In the darkest corner she cowered and wept, 

I bore her down by a winding stair. 

And into the streets with my burden crept 

" Hushing her sobs I staggered on. 

Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair; 

For sadly we needed some refuge safe, 

And who would offer it ? — nay, who dare ? 

Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out 
Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there. 

" But, alas ! though almost too old to live. 
She feared the mob, and she feared to die. 

And in selfish dread, when again night fell. 
From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly; 

Yet she flung me a blouse, and bonnet rouge. 
That none should my soldier's dress descry. 



ENGUERRANDE'S CHILD. 213 

" Bribed with the little one's rosary— 

Le voici, I have it here on my breast; 
I brought it back for its weight in gold— = 

A fellow I drew aside from the rest, 
Let us slip by while he kept the guard, 

And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed. 

'* Scarce half a league from the city walls, 
Lo ! swooping down like a fiery blast- 
Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath- 
Rank after rank spurring quickly past — 
The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande, 
And I felt that his child was safe at last ! 

** She knew their leader — she shrieked his name- 
He halted — I told you what garb I wore, 

They thought me a rebel ; the little one 

With oaths and blows from my arms they tore. 

And left me for dead on the cold hard earth ; 
But the child was safe — and my tale is o*er.** 

** But your payment ?" a doztin voices ask, 
And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain ; 

** Pardon, mesdames ! for a deed of love 
No soldier his palm with gold would stain ; 

Only this boon did I ever crave — 
One look at her ingel face again ! 

" Qu'importe ? she 1 . rich and happy, and I " 

He pauses — la Comtesse has left her throne ; 

Once more on his breast a fair head lies, 

Once more round his neck are white arms thrown, 

And sweet lips murmur, *' Mon brave ! mon brave 1 
Let my poor love for the past atone !" 



214 "^^^ KING'S KISS. 

The play is ended — ^the guests depart— 
La Comtesse was none so fair after all I 

But many an eye looks back with regret 
On the broad domain, and the princely hall, 

That Enguerrande's child with her hand bestows 
On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul. 

■—Tid Bits. 



The King's Kiss.* 



A king rode forth one summ.er morn, his vast domain to see; 
Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode on his majesty : 
Quoth he, "A mighty king am I ; whate'er I say must be, 
For none there lives that dare deny a favor asked by me." 

The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted in a dell, 
Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a mossy well ; 
With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered draught 

received. 
And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind conceived. 

"Fair girl," said he, "those lips of thine were surely made to 

kiss. 
And fain I'd press them close to mine, refuse me not that bliss." 
" No, no," the blushing lass replied, " no kiss you'll get from me, 
For I'm a true and promised bride, to one who's far at sea." 

"I am the King," the monarch said, " must I be disobeyed?" 
The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trembled, sore afraid: 
Then looking up with marble face, and wet but brave blue eye, 
Said she, " Ere thus my troth debase, within the well I die!" 

*By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of Coiiyri<;ht. 



CONTRASTS IN SHAKESPEARE. 215 

' Enough/* the conquered sovereign cried, " this ring in honor 

wear, 
For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she is fair." 
The king rode off a wiser man than oft is monarch's lot. 
And deemed that naught was sweeter than the kiss he never got. 

— George M, Vickers, 



Contrasts in Shakespeare. 



Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of 
Klecution and Languages, June, 1886. 

Through the whole of Shakespeare's plays, we find every 
prominent character stamped with a separate individuality, 
which is preserved in every detail and characteristic, whether 
in the insane jealousy of Othello, the impetuosity of Harry 
Hotspur, the constancy of Portia, the vindictiveness of Shylock, 
the wickedness of Don John, or the benign, forgiving spirit of 
Prosper©. 

There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming 
and flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine. 

It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful 
sentences of Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy 
badinage of Beatrice and Celia; seeks the shadow in the mel- 
ancholy of Jacques; enters the realm of the pun in the wordy 
self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to the comic and some- 
times the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry. 

In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, 
overcast by the ever-present suspicion of his father's foul end, 
and a vague distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm 
lurks in the depths, and imparts an incisiveness to every well- 
turned sentence. He says to Guildenstern : 



2i5 CONTRASTS IN SUA KF.SPKA RE. 

Hami^ET. Will you play upon this pipe? 
Guildenstern replies: 

GUII.D. — My lord, I cannot. 

Ham. — I pray you. 

Guii<D. — Believe me, I cannot. 

Ham. — I do beseech you. 

Guii^D. — I know no touch of it, my lord. 

Ham.— 'Tis as easy as lying : Govern these ventages with your finger 
and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most 
excellent music. Look you, these are the stops. 

Guii^D. — But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony ; I 
have not the skill. 

Ham, — Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me ! 
You would play upon me ; you would seem to know my stops ; you 
would pluck out the heart of my mystery ; you would sound me from 
my lowest note to the top of my compass : and there is much music, 
excellent voice in this little organ ; yet cannot you make it speak ! 
'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me 
what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon 
me. 

Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer 
instance occurring than in the passage where he is called upon 
to account for the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his 
insinuations, asks : 

Ros. — Take you me for a sponge, my lord? 

Ham. — Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his 
authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he 
keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw ; first mouthed, to be last 
swallowed : when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing 
you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again. 

With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Bea- 
trice, and we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the 
valiant soldier Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance 
she remarks : 

Beat.— I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick, 
nobody marks you. 



CONTRASTS IN SHAKESPEARE. 2 1 7 

She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the 
words : 

Beat. — I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he 
loves me. 

And she retains her woman's right to the last word in her 
parting shot: 

Beat. — ^You always end with a jade's trick. I know you of old. 

Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to 
his gallant offer : 

Don. p. — Will you have me, my lady, 

Beat. — No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days. 
Your grace is too costly to wear every day. 

Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Bea- 
trice is more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of 
womanliness which tones her raillery^ while her sprightli- 
ness is more strongly thrown out in the early scenes of 
the play by its contrast with the constantly recurring 
melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly observa- 
ble in the following : 

CeIv. — Why cousin ! why Rosalind ! Cupid have mercy ! not a word ? 

Ros. — Not one to throw at a dog. 

CeIt. — No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs ; throw 
some of them at me ; come, lame me with reasons. 

Ros. — Then were two cousins laid up ; when the one should be lamed 
with reasons and the other mad without any. 

CeI/. — But is this all for your father ? 

Ros. — No, some of it is for my child's father. Oh, how full of briers 
is this working-day world. 

CEI/.— They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday fool- 
ery ; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch 
them. 

Ros. — I could shake them off my coat ; these burs are in my heart 

Cei.. — Hem them away. 

Ros. — I would try if I could cry **hem" and have him. 

Cei.. — Come, come ; wrestle with thy affections. 

Ros. — O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself ! 

Cei*. — O, a good wish upon you ! You will try in time in despite of a 
fall. 



2l8 CONTRASTS IN SHAKESPEARE. 

After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest 
of Arden, Rosalind's spirits rise, and then it is she who be- 
comes the prominent sprightly character in the play. She re- 
ceives Orlando after a short absence with the reproach : 

Ros. — Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while ? You 
a lover ! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my 
sight more." 

Ori,. — My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. 

Ros. — Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide a min- 
ute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth 
part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that 
Cupid hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart- 
whole. 

Ori,. — Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 

Ros. —Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight : I had as lief 
be wooed of a snail. 

Ori.. — Of a snail ! 

Ros. —Ay, of a snail ; for though he comes slowly, he carries his 
house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. 

In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to 
those we have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of 
the present day, loves to hear himself talk, and, owing to his 
high political position, has probably become so accustomed 
to receiving the applause of fawning courtiers, that the habit 
of punning has become a second nature to him ; even after 
receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still is impos- 
sible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the con- 
\f:ersation on the cause of Hamlet's peculiarities. 

Poiy. — My liege and madam, to expostulate 
What majesty should be, what duty is, 
Why day is day, night night, and time is time, 
Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. 
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, 
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, 
I will be brief Your noble son is mad ; 



CONTRASTS IN SHAKESPEARE, 2ic 

Mad call I it ; for, to define true madness, 

What is't but to be nothing else but mad? 
But let that go. 
QuEBN. — More matter, with less art. 

Poiv. — Madam, I swear I use no art at all, 

That he is mad, 'tis true ; 'tis true 'tis pity, 

And pity 'tis 'tis true ; a foolish figure ; 

But farewell it, for I will use no art. 

Mad let us grant him, then ; and now remains 

That we find out the cause of this effect. 

Or rather say, the cause of this defect. 

For this effect, defective, comes by cause : ^ 

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. 

Let US now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul 
far above the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman's 
devotion, adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle 
dignity in accepting the hoped-for result of his choice of the 
caskets is sweetly evinced in the following : 

POR. — You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am ; though for myself alone 
I would not be ambitious in my wish. 
To wish myself much better ; yet, for you 
I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
More rich ; 

That only to stand high in your account, 
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account ; but the full sum of me 
Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; happier than this. 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 
As from her lord, her governor, her king. 

In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side of 



220 MERR Y MIKE. 

Portia's character, and we will close with a quotation from her 
speech to Shylock. 

POR. — ^The quality of mercy is not strained, 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath : it is twice blest ; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown ; 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself ; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. 

F. Lizzie Peirce. 



Merry Mike. 



Merry Mike from the door bounded off to his play, 
With his head in his hat on a blustery day ; 
When the wind of a sudden came frolicking down 
And lifted Mike's hat from his round little crown. 
Don't you call that funny, I'd like to know? 

Then he made up his mind to return to the house, 
But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse. 
And it roared and it roared, and he puffed as he ran, 
Till it just knocked over this queer little man. 
"Ho! ho! ho!" said Mike, and he said "ha! ha! ha! 
I'll get up again, old wind, you see." 

Then the wind with a flurry of bluster and racket 
Went crowding and crowding under his jacket, 



MERRY MIKE. 22 1 

And it lifted him off of his two little feet, 
And carried him bodily over the street. 

Mike laughed ha ! ha ! ha ! and he laughed ho ! ho ! ho ! 

But the wind, with its antics, was plainly not through, 
For fiercer and fiercer, and fiercer it blew, 
Till making one effort of fury intense 
It carried Mike bodily over the fence. 

He met there a somewhat discouraged old coW, 
That had blown thither too, though he failed to see how, 
Then he smiled and said, " Make yourself easy, my friend, 
Only keep your mind quiet and things will soon mend," 
Mike laughed ha ! ha ! ha ! and he laughed ho ! ho ! ho ! 
For the wind is just playing, old cow, you know." 

As he scampered off home, what above should he see 
But the roof of a shed that had lodged in a tree ; 
And he laughed and he laughed till his sides fairly ached. 
For, he said, this is better than wedding or wake. 
And he roared, ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! 

"That boy," say the terrified folks of the town, 

" He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down." 

"Indeed, and I would," answered Mike, with a grin, 

"For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in." 

And he chuckled, he I he ! he ! and he chuckled, ho ! ho I ho ! 

The very idea delighted him so. 

His father complained to the priest, " Now, I say, 

Mike never stops laughing by night or by day." 

" Let him laugh," spoke the priest, " he will change by and by ; 

'Tis better to laugh than to grumble and cry ; 

It's the way with the lad ; let him laugh if he like, 

And be glad youVe a son that's as merry as Mike." 



The Village Choir. 

Half a bar, half a bar, 

Half a bar onward ! 
Into an awful ditch, 
Choir and Precentor hitch. 
Into a mess of pitch. 

They led the Old Hundred 

Trebles to right of them, 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them. 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh ! that Precentor's look. 
When the sopranos took 
Their own time and hook. 
From the Old Hundred, 

Screeched all the trebles here, 
Boggled the tenors there. 
Raising the parson's hair. 

While his mind wandered ; 
Their's not to reason why 
This psalm was pitched too high|* 
Their's but to gasp and cry 
Out the Old Hundred. 

Trebles to right of them. 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them. 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Stormed they with shout and yell; 
Not wise they sang, nor well, 
Drowning the sexton's bell. 

While all the church wondered. 

222 



THE BOOK AGENT BEATS THE BANDIT. 

Dire the Precentor's glare, 
Flashed his pitchfork in air, 
Sounding the fresh key to bear 

Out the Old Hundred. 
Swiftly he turned his back, 
Reached he his hat from rack. 
Then from the screaming pack 

Himself he sundered. 

Tenors to right of him. 
Trebles to left of him, 
Discords behind him, 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh, the wild howls they wrought; 
Right to the end they fought! 
Some tune they sang, but not — 
Not the Old Hundred. 



223 



The Book Agent Beats the Bandit. 



Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever 
melted the heart of a country trader to the merry music of the 
pliant chin, sat one evening of last week in the smoking com- 
partment of a chair car on the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. 
With them was a tall, thin, dyspeptic man with sandy hair, 
dressed in a rusty suit of black. Nature had endowed him 
with long legs, and his tailor with short pants. His coat collar 
was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a soap factory 
going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek as 
hard as last year's cider. He was a book agent. Already 
had he gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and 
Pocket Encyclopedia of 215 numbers, when suddenly a real 



2 24 THE BOOK A GENT BE A TS THE BANDIT. 

Jesse-James-like train bandit opened the door and stood, 
[/istol in hand, before the quartet. 

Brown's soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads 
of perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones' classic brow, 
while his hair Hfted his hat two solid inches from the crown of 
his head. Robinson murmured the first verse of " Ever of 
Thee I'm Fondly Dreaming," and thought he was praying. 
But the book agent bounded from his seat with a " How do, 
stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me show you my 
superb * History of Boone County,' a perfect bonanza of do- 
mestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortu- 
nate enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant 
letter press, printed on toned paper and embellished with fine 
steel engravings and an official map of the State. A carefully 
compiled, correct topographical and historical " 

" Shut up ! " roared the bandit. 

" Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double- 
action brass clasp — my own invention — and from its simplicity 
of design and beauty of construction worth half the price of 
the book. Given away, sir ; literally given away, for $7, in 
boards or $4..^o in morocco with beveled edges." 

"If yer say " 

" I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title parje with a 
vignette portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genea- 
logical abstract chart in which you can write the names of 
your illustrious ancestors and beloved family — births, marri- 
ages, deaths and " 

"Stop!" shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by 
the buttonhole. 

" You may well say * stop,' sir ; I've said enough to make 
you ache to possess this beautiful volume, but I haven't begun 
to " 



NOT IN THE RANKS. 



225 



'' Sit down ! " the robber roared in \ voice that made the 
puffs of the engine sound hke the sighs of a sick zephyr, and 
loosened all the joints of Jones's limbs. 

" Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, 
with an original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of 
mortality, valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the 
geological " 

" Lemmego, or I'll blow the roof of yer head off," shrieked 
the robber, as he wrested himself from the agent's grasp and 
dropped off the rear car into the gathering gloom of the com- 
ing night. 

Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and 
looked big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the 
villain was gone to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a 
roll of bills and hoped they didn't think he had been scared. 
But the agent sank wearily to his seat, and for the first time in 
all that long journey was silent for nearly four consecutive 
minutes. — Evansville Argus. 



Not in the Ranks. 



The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight 
on our streets is one of the rarest now ; indeed, it is so seldom 
seen that we involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something 
that brings sad and often cruel memories. The other day an 
old man wearing a coat of this kind, which reached to his 
heels, stopped at a cottage a little way out of town and asked 
leave to rest awhile on the porch. 

" I'm a bit tire J," he said to the woman who opened the 

door, " an' if you d n't mind I'll sit here and rest myself for a 

spell." 

" You're welcome," said the woman kindly, with a glance at 
15 



226 NOT IN THE RANKS. 

the martial blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little 
while returned with a bowl of coffee and a plate of white 
biscuit. 

" Eat," she said, gently ; " I had a boy who was a soldier." 

" But I'm not a soldier," answered the old man. " I never 
was a soldier; my boy went to war and was killed. He was 
all I had, too. This coat was his ; seems like he's near me 
when I have it on. I gave him to his country; the hand- 
somest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole regiment. 
God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this 
coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No ; I never 
was a soldier." 

The woman went in and brought out some cake and the 
whitest honey, and added it to the coffee and biscuit. 

" Are you alone in the world ?" she asked. 

" Oh, no," answered the old man, cheerfully ; " I've got a 
sister, but she's old and lame, and' she has a daughter that is 
sickly and ailing. You see I have them to work for, and they 
are a sight of comfort to me. Many's the time I'd have broken 
down since Mary died but for them poor critters. Mary was 
my wife, ma'am ; she was a master hand to nuss sick folks, 
and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go into 
the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these 
sixteen years ago ; but she did a heap of good work first. 
Many a soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall ! Mary, 
darlin', God wanted ye in the ranks up there ; I've often wished 
that I had been a soldier, if only to be fit for the little mother 
and Tim ; but I never was." 

He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and 
offered to pay for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn 
silver ; but the woman shook her head. 

*' Put back your money. My son was a soldier," she said. 



THE OLD ACTOR'S SlORY. 



22-/ 



" But I am not a soldier. Well, well , " (as he looked into 
her face,) " I thank you, and I take it for his sake." 

He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned 
away. As he walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, 
the long skirt of his army overcoat struck bright and blue 
against the splendor of the sunset ; he shaded his eyes with 
one trembling hand and looked wistfully at the rose and ame- 
thyst door that seemed to open in the west. What saw he^ 
there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a small, 
homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. 
Ay, and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he 
passed down into the shadows and disappeared. 

The woman at the gate looked after him. 

"No soldier]" she said gently," "but I wonder if the boy 
who died on his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or 
sacrificed as much to his country ? All the soldiers didn't go 
into the war with flying flags and rolling drums. Some of 
them stayed at home and fought harder battles. I'm glad I 
gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a brave one, 
too, and one day he will know it !" 

And I think she was right. — Detroit Free Press. 



The Old Actor's Story. 



First Honor at the Third Annual Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of 
Elocution and Languages, l886. 

Mine is a wild, strange story, — the strangest you ever heard ; 
There are many^ who won't believe it, but it's gospel^ every 

word ; 
It's the biggest drama of any in a long,^ adventurous life ; 
The scene was a ship, and the actors — were myself and my 

new-wed wife. 



II. O. 2. H. F. 3. H. Sw. 



J28 "^^^E OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 

You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then ; 
I'm old, you know, and I wander — it's a way with old women 

and men, 
For their lives lie all behind"* them, and their thoughts go far 

away,^ 
And are tempted afield, like children, lost on a summer day. 

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that 

awful night, 
But I see it again this evening, I can never shut® out the sight 
We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, 
When we had an offer for Melbourne,' and made up our minds 

to go. 

We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down* 
With a strolling band of players, going from town to town ; 
We played the lovers together — we were leading lady and 

gent— 
And at last we played in earnest, and straight® to the church 

we went. 

The parson gave us his blessing,^*^ and I gave Nellie the ring," 
And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with 

everything. 
How we smiled at that part of the service when I said " I thee 

endow !" 
But as to the "love and cherish," friends, I meant to keep that^ vow, 

We were only a couple of strollers ; we had coin when the 

show was good, 
When it wasn't we went without*^ it, and we did the best we 

could. 



4. H. B. 5. H. L. 6. V. HO. 7. Left H. L. 8. H. Sw. 9. H. F. la 
B. P. H. F. II. H. O. 12. H. F. 13. H.L. 



THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 229 

We were happy and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts 

we made, — 
Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no 

shade. 

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit ; 
Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took 

a flit,— 1^ 
Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call ; 
But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet^® to 

fall. 

We got an offer for Melbourne, — got it that very week. 
Those were the days when thousands went over their fortunes 

to seek. 
The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the 

spot 
Good for a " spec," and took us as actors among his lot. 

We hadn't a friend in England — we'd only ourselves to 

please — 
And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the 

seas.^® 
We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and 

rough ; 
We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. 

But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm. 
When misery came upon us, — came in a hideous form.'^'^ 
My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad 
That the doctor said she was dying, — I thought 'twould have 
sent me mad,^* — 



14. LeftH.L. 15. B.D.F. 16. LeftH.L. 17. V.H.O. 18. Hand to head. 



230 '^^^ 0^^ ACTOR'S STORY. 

Dying where leagues^^ of billows seemed to shriek for theif 

prey, 
And the nearest land was hundreds^" — ay, thousands — of 

miles away. 
She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, 
So still I'd to bend and listen^^ for the faintest sign of breath. 

She seemed in a sleep,^^ and sleeping, with a smile^^ on her thin, 

wan face, 
She passed away^^ one morning, while I prayed^ to the throne 

of grace. 
I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, 
Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless — my wife 

was dead ! 

Dead ! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that 
night. 

For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad out- 
right. 

I was shut in the farthest cabin,^^ and I beat my head on the 
side, 

And all day long in my madness, " They've murdered her !"^^ 
I cried. 

They locked me away from my fellows, — put me in crueP 

chains. 
It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's 

brains. 
I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a deviP sent 
To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was 

rent. 

19. B. H.O. 20. H. L. 21. Bend in listening attitude. 22. D. O. 23. Turn 
to P. 24. A. O. 25. Clasp hands. 26. Left H. L. 27. B.Cl. 28. Sp. 29.0.0. 



THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 33 1 

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, 
And my wife lay dead quite near^^ me. I beat^^ with my 

fettered fists, 
Beat at my prison panels, and then — O God ! — and then 
I heard the shrieks of women*^ and the tramp of hurrying 

men. 

I heard the cry, "Ship a-fire!" caught up by a hundred 

throats,, 
And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats ; 
Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning 

wood, 
And the place^ grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I 

stood. 

I beat^"* at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, 
And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawn- 
ing crack^^ 
I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, 
Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling 
gale. 

I dashed^® at the door in fury, shrieking, *' I will not die ! 
Die in this burning prison !" — but I caught no answering cry. 
Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar. 
And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison 
door. 

I was free^ — with the heavy iron door dragging me down^ to 

death ; 
I fought my way to the cabin,^^ choked with the burning 

breath 



30. H. L. 31. Sp. 32. A.O. 33. B.H.O. 34. Sp. 35. A.O. 36. B. V. 
H. R 37. B H. O. z%. B. D. F. 39. H. O. 



232 



THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 



Of the flames that danced around me** like man-mocking 

fiends at play. 
And then — O God ! I can see it, and shall to my dying day. 

There^ lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that 

night; 
The flames flung a smile^ on her features, — ^a horrible,'*^ lurid 

light, 
God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found 

myself by her side ; 
I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had 

died. 

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my 

brain f^ 
I heard a sound as of breathing,^ and then a low cry of pain ; 
Oh, was there mercy in heaven ?^^ Was there a God in the 

skies ? 
The dead woman's lips were moving,'*® the dead woman opened 

her eyes. 

I cursed'*^ like a madman raving — I cried to her, ** Nell ! my 

Nell !"^» 
They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell, 
They had left us alone to perish — forgotten me living - and she 
Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven,^^ instead of the 



I clutched at her,"* roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her 

still ; 
I seized her in spite of my fetters, — fear gave a gianfs will. 

40. B. H. O. 41. D. O, 42. P. D. O. 43. Hand to head. 44, Listening. 
45. A. O. 46. D. O. 47. B. CL D. 48. B. Par. D. O. 49- A. O. 50. D. a 
SI. Sp. 



THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 



233 



God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the 

flames and the wreck 
Up — up^ to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched 

deck. 

We'd a moment of life together, — a moment of life, the time. 
For one last word to each other, — 'twas a moment supreme, 

sublim-e. 
From the trance we*d for death mistaken, the heat had brought 

her to life, 
And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there,®^ husband and 

wife ! 

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, 
When a shout came over the water,^* and I looked, and lo, 

there lay. 
Right away from the vessel,^^ a boat that was standing by ; 
They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the 

sky. 

I shouted a prayer to Heaven,^^ then called to my wife,*^ and she 
Tore with new strength at my fetters — God helped her, and I 

was free ; 
Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped^^ for one chance of 

life. 
Did they save us ? Well, here I am,®^ sir, and yonder's®* my 

dear old wife. 

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship pass- 
ing by 
Took us on board, and at Melbourne^ landed us by and by, 

52. A. O. 53. B. D. O. 54. Look to Left. 55. Left H. O. 56. A. O. 57. 
H. O. 5S. B. P^. H. O. to left. i>o. Poim to self. 60. Ind. H. O. 61. Left 
HO. 



234 ^^^^ HASSAN'S DREAM. 

We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that 

famous trip, 
But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning 

ship! 

— George R, Sims, 

Ben Hassan's Dream. 



I stood alone beside a mighty sea ; 

The waves in awful majesty swept in 

And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond 

The snowy-crested Hne of breakers rode 

A ship ; and as she rose and fell her tall 

Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky: 

" O, ship 1 O, restless waste ! " I cried, " Be true. 

Be merciful, that they who watch on board. 

And they that wait at home, may once more clasp 

The hands and press the lips of those they love," 

The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent 
'Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands 
Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky 
Upon my left lay leagues of sand ; before, 
Behind ; which way I looked was burning sand : 
The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream 
Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned. 
The caravan had gone. I leaned low down 
To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned ! Lost! 
Would my siesta prove a sleep of death ? 

Another scene : The sun had set, and peace 
Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume 
Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound 



BEN HASSAN'S DREAM. 235 

Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain 

Where camels browsed. The slender minarets, 

And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town. 

That nestled 'mid the distant, waving palms. 

A troop of horsemen slowly came in view ; 

Their banner bore the crescent and the star. 

i knelt and cried : " Praise be to Allah's name I " 



And then, it seemed, I was within a grot 

That opened on a placid lake. The moon 

Was at the full and o'er the water threw 

A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood 

A child with upturned face. I placed my hand 

Upon its head, when, lo ! from out the lake 

Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared 

With baleful eyes and then advanced. " Keep ofif ! 

Keep off ! " I shrieked, then seized the child and turned 

To fly — when suddenly the vision changed : 

Once more I dwelt beneath my parents' roof, 

A happy, careless child. The olden scenes 

Were fresh again, and things forgot had life 

And form. O home ! — how blest are they that have. 

A home ! — sweet haven sure when others fail ! 

" Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own ! " 

It was my mother's voice. Ah, yes, her eyes 

Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled 

And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face, 

( -^e^ and wept to know 'twas but a dream. 

— Geo. M» Vickers. 



Six o'clock. 



Down by the rugged coast of Maine 

Breaks on the air the glad refrain 

That welcomes old Time on his westward flight, 

That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright, 

And heralds the bliss of a single night ; 

Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, 

At six o'clock and six times a week. 

Loveliest hour of all the day, 
Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway : 
Affection and hope in their might are rife 
In each watching child ; in the waiting wife ; 
The father that tramps from his daily strife ; 
The widow's son and his fond embrace ; 
In the smile that beams on her pallid face. 

Who hath not felt the wondrous spell. 
Ushered by whistle and by bell ? 
A halo of peace round each home it flings ; 
To poor and to weary relief it brings ; 
And e'en the black tea-kettle gaily sings : 
O moments calm ! Ye foretell the rest 
That soon must come to each human breast 

Westward speed on o'er hill and dell, 
City and town and cot to tell ; 
On, on, like a courier, dash away, 
Hard pressing the heels of departing day 
Till stopped by the waters of " 'Frisco " Bayf 
236 



CHARLIE'S STORY, 237 

Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, 
At six o'clock, and six times a week. 

— Geo, M. Vickers, 



Charlie's Story, 



I was sitting in the twilight, 

With my Charlie on my knees, 
Little two-year old, forever 

Teasing " Talk a tory to me pease." 
'* Now;' I said, " talk me a 'tory." 

" Well," reflectively, " I'll 'mence. 
Mamma, I did see a kitty, 

Great big kitty on the fence." 

Mamma smiles. Five little fingers 

Cover up her laughing lips ; 
*' Is 00 laughing ? " " Yes " I tell him. 

But I kiss the finger tips ; 
And I say: " Now tell another." 

" Well " (all smiles) '' now I will 'mence. 
Mamma, I did see a doggie. 

Great big doggie on the fence." 

"Rather similar, your stories, 

Aren't they, dear ? " A sober look 
Swept across the pretty forehead ; 

Then he sudden courage took. 
** But I know a nice new 'tory 

* Plendid, Mamma ! Hear me 'mence. 
Mamma, I did see a — elfunt 

Great big elfunt on the fence ! " 





The Months. 




A Pageant. 




Personifications. 


January, 


February. 


March, 


April. 


July. 

August. 


^ ,1 May. 
>■ Gentlemen. , 

June. 


October. 


September. 


December. 


November. 



> Ladies. 



Robin Redbreasts ; Lambs and Sheep ; Nightingale and 
Nestlings. 

Various Flowers, Fruits, etc. 
Scene : — A Cottage with its Grounds. 
{A room in a large, comfortable cottage ; afire burning on the 
hearth ; a table on which the breakfast things have been left stand- 
ing, January discovered seated at the fir e^ 



January. 

Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, 
Dim the day until the cold dark night. 

\Stirs the fir e^ 
Crackle, sparkle, fagot ; embers, glow : 
Some one may be plodding through the snow, 
Longing for a light, 
For the light that you and I can show. 
238 



THE MONTHS. 239 

If no one else should come, 

Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb, 

And never troublesome : 

Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb ? 

Here's butter for my bunch of bread, 

And sugar for your crumb ; 
Here's room upon the hearth-rug, 

If you'll only come. 

In your scarlet waistcoat, 

With your keen bright eye. 
Where are you loitering ? 

Wings were made to fly ! 

Make haste to breakfast, 

Come and fetch your crumb, 
For I'm as glad to see you 

As you are glad to come. 

{Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at 
the lattice ^ which January opens. The birds flutter in^ hop about 
the floor ^ and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. 
They have scarcely finished their meal^ when a knock is heard at 
the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens 
to February ^ who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her 
hand^ 

January. 

Good-morrow, sister. 



240 '^^^^ MONTHS. 

February. 

Brother, joy to you ! 
iVe brought some snowdrops ; only just a few> 
But quite enough to prove the world awake, 
Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew. 
And for the pale sun's sake. 

(She hands a few of her snoiv drops to fanuary, who retires ijito 
the backgrotmd. While February stands arranging the remain- 
ing snowdrops in a glass of water on the windoiv-sill, a soft 
butting and bleating are heaj^d outside. She opens the door, a7td 
sees one foremost lamb, with other sheep and lambs bleating and 
crowding towards her?) 

February. 

O you, you little wonder, come — come in, 

You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white lamb : 

You panting mother ewe, come too. 

And lead that tottering twin 

Safe in : 

Bring all your bleating kith and kin, 

Except the horny ram. 

{February opens a second door in the background, and the little 

flock files through ifito a warm and sheltered compartment out of 

sight) 

The lambkin tottering in its walk. 

With just a fleece to wear; 

The snowdrop drooping on its stalk 

So slender, — 

Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, 

Braving the cold for our delight, 

Both white, 

Both tender. 



THE MONTHS. 24 1 

{A rattling of door and windows ; branches seen without, 
tossing violently to afidfro) 

How the doors rattle, and the branches sway ! 
Here's brother March comes whirling on his way, 
With winds that eddy and sing. 

{She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and dis- 
closes March hastening up, both hands full of violets a?id 
anemones) 

February. 

Come, show me what you bring; 

For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, 

And must away. 

March. 

{Stopping short on the threshold) 

I blow and arouse, 

Through the world's wide house. 
To quicken the torpid earth : 

Grappling I fling 

Each feeble thing. 
But bring strong Hfe to the birth. 

I wrestle and frown. 

And topple down ; 
I wrench, I rend, I uproot; 

Yet the violet 

Is born where I set 
The sole of my flying foot 

{Hands violets and anemones to February ^ who retires into the 

background) 
16 



;42 



THE MONTHS, 



And in my wake 

Frail wind-flowers quake, 
And the catkins promise fruit, 

I drive ocean ashore 

With rush and roar, 
And he cannot say me nay J . 

My harpstrings all 

Are the forests tall, 
Making music when I play. 

And as others perforce, 

So I on my course 
Run and needs must run, 

With sap on the mount, 

And buds past count, 
And rivers and clouds and sun. 

With seasons and breath 

And time and death 
And all that has yet begun. 

{Before March has done speakings a voice is heard approaching 
accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singings 
and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song?) 

April. 

{Outside) 

Pretty little three 
Sparrows in a tree, 

Light upon the wing ; 

Though you cannot sing, 

You can chirp of Spring: 
Chirp of Spring to me, 
Sparrows, from your tree. 



THE MONTHS. 

Never mind the showers, 

Chirp about the flowers, 
While you build a nest : 
Straws from east and west, 
Feathers from your breast. 

Make the snuggest bowers 

In a world of flowers. 

You must dart away 
From the chosen spray, 

You intrusive third 

Extra little bird ; 

Join the unwedded herd! 
These have done with play, 
And must work to-day. 



243 



April. 
(Appearing at the open door^ 
Good-morrow and good-bye : if others fly. 
Of all the flying months you're the most flying* 

March. 
You're hope and sweetness, April. 

April. 

Birth means dying, 
As wings and wind mean flying ; 
So you and I and all things fly or die ; 
And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying. 
But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers. 
And a lapful of flowers, 



244 "^^^ MONTHS. 

And these dear nestlings, aged three hours; 

And here's their mother sitting, 

Their father merely flitting 

To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers. 

(As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers 
and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. 
April, ivithout entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nest- 
tings watching them) 

April. 

What beaks you have, you funny things, 

What voices, shrill and weak ; 
Who'd think anything that sings 

Could sing with such a beak ? 
Yet you'll be nightingales some day 

And charm the country-side, 
When I'm away and far away, 

And May is queen and bride. 

{May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss- 
April starts and looks round) 

April. 
Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye. 

May. 
That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh ; 
Your sorrows half in fun. 
Begun and done 

And turned to joy while twenty seconds run. 
At every step a flower 
Fed by your last bright shower, — 

{She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with Aprils 
who strolls away through the garden) 



THE MONTHS, 

May. 



24S 



And gathering flowers I listened to the song 
Of every bird in bower. 

The world and I are far too full of bliss, 
To think or plan or toil or care ; 
The sun is waxing strong, 
The days are waning long, 
And all that is, 
Is fair. 

Here are May buds of lily and of rose, 

And here's my namesake-blossom, May ; 
And from a watery spot 
See here, forget-me-not. 
With all that blows 
To-day. 

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, 
Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove. 
And every nightingale 
And cuckoo tells its tale. 
And all they mean 
Is love. 

(June appears at the further end of the garden^ coming slcnh. 
towards May^ who seeing her, exclaims .*) 

May 
Surely you're come too early, sister June. 



246 THE MONTHS. 

June. 

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon 

To round your young May moon. 

And set the world a-gasping at my noon, 

Yet must I come. So here are strawberries, 

Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please ; 

And there are full-blown roses by the score, 

More roses and yet more. 

(May^ eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds) 

June. 

The sun does all my long day's work for me. 

Raises and ripens everything ; 
I need but sit beneath a leafy tree 

And watch and sing. 

{Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.) 

Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee. 
Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, 

I need but nestle down beneath my tree 
And drop asleep. 

{June falls asleep ; and is not awakened by the voice of 
July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling) 

July. 

{Behind the scenes) 

Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled, 
Which will you take ? Yellow, blue, speckled ! 
Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow. 
Each in its way has not a fellow. 



THE MONTHS, 2Aj 

{Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon 
his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate 
piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up 
to June^ and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.) 

June. 
What, here already? 
July. 

Nay, my tryst is kept; 
The longest day slipped by you while you slept. 
I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom, 

{Hands her the plate) 
Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees. 
As downy, bask and boom 
In sunshine and in gloom of trees. 
But get you in, a storm is at my heels ; 
The whirlwind whistles and wheels, 
Lightning flashes and thunder peals, 
Flying and following hard upon my heels. 

{June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor) 

July. 
The roar of a storm sweeps up 

From the east to the lurid west, 
The darkening sky, like a cup, 

Is filled with rain to the brink ; 
The sky is purple and fire. 

Blackness and noise and unrest; 
The earth, parched with desire. 

Opens her mouth to drink. 



248 THE MONTHS. 

Send forth thy thunder and fire, 

Turn over thy brimming cup, 
O sky, appease the desire 

Of earth in her parched unrest ; 
Pour out drink to her thirst, 

Her famishing Hfe Hft up ; 
Make thyself fair as at first, 

With a rainbow for thy crest. 

Have done with thunder and fire, 
O sky with the rainbow crest ; 

O earth, have done with desire. 
Drink, and drink deep, and rest. 

{Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds 
of grain!) 

July. 

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm, 

And scathless from my storm. 

Your hands are full of corn, I see, 

As full as hands can be : 

And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm 

In their recovered calm, 

And that they owe to me. 

{Jtdy retires into the shrubbery^ 
August. 
Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, 

Barley bows a graceful head, 
Short and small shoots up canary, 

Each of these is some one's bread ; 
Bread for man or bread for beast, 
Or at very least 
A bird's savory feast. 



THE MONTHS. 249 

Men are brethren of each other, 
One in flesh and one in food ; 
And a sort of foster brother, 
Is the litter, or the brood 
Of that folk in fur and feather, 
Who, with men together. 
Breast the wind and weather. 



(Au^st descries September toiling across the lattm^ 

August. 

My harvest home is ended ; and I spy 

September drawing nigh 

With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, 

And the first sigh 

Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly. 

{September arrives^ carrying upon her head a basket heaped 
high Tviih fruit,) 

September. 

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few 
Plums and these pears for you, 
A dozen kinds of apples, one or two 
Melons, some figs all bursting through . 
Their skins ; and pearled with dew 
These damsons, violet-blue. 

{While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the 
ground, selects various fruits ^ and witltdraws slowly along the 
gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes) 



250 ^-^-^ MONTHS. 

September. 

My song is half a sigh 

Because my green leaves die ; 
Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; 

And well may Autumn sigh, 
And well may I 
Who watch the sere leaves flying. 

My leaves that fade and fall, 

I note you one and all ; 
I call you, and the autumn wind is calling, 

Lamenting for your fall. 
And for the pall 
You spread on earth in falling. 

And here's a song of flowers to suit such hours : 
A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, 
Amid my withering bowers. 

In the sunny garden bed 

Lilies look so pale. 
Lilies droop the head 

In the shady, grassy vale ; 
If all alike they pine 
In shade and in shine. 
If everywhere they grieve, 
Where will lilies live ? 

{October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different 
sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after 
him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole^ 



THE MONTHS 2^1 

October. 

Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, 
Even if the year has done with corn and clover, 
With flowers and leaves ; besides, in fact, it's true, 
Some leaves remain, and some flowers too, 
For me and you. 
Now see my crops. 

\Offering his produce to September^ 

I've brought you nuts and hops ; 
And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops. 

(October wreathes the hop-vines about September's neck, and 
gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but 
without shutting the door. She steps into the background; he 
advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smoulder- 
ing fire^ and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast^ 

October. 

Crack your first nut, light your first fire. 
Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar, 

Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher ; 
Logs are as cheery as sun or as star, 
Logs we can find wherever we are. 

Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves, 

Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers ; 

Never fancy my whistling wind grieves. 
Never fancy I've tears in my showers; 
Dance, nights and days ! and dance on, my hours. 

\^Sees November approaching^ 



252 THE MONTHS. 

October. 

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim 

And grim, 

With dismal ways. 

What cheer, November ? 

November. 

{Entering and shutting the door.) 

Nought have I to bring. 
Tramping a-chill and shivering, 
Except these pine cones for a blaze, — 

Except a fog which follows, 

And stuffs up all the hollows, — 
Except a hoar frost here and there,-— 

Except some shooting stars, 

Which dart their luminous cars, 
Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air. 

i^October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the back- 
^ound, while November throws her pine cones on the Jiri and 
sits down listlessly.) 

November. 

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired 

Of all that's high or deep ; 
There's naught desired and naught required 

Save a sleep. 

I rock the cradle of the earth, 

I lull her with a sigh ; 
And know that she will wake to mirth 

By and bye. 



THE MONTHS. z ^ -i 

{Through the window December is seen running and leap- 
trig i?i the direction of the door. He knocks}) 

November. 

(Calls out without rising^ 

Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last : 
Come in, December. 

{He opens the door and enters^ loadedwith evergreens in berry, 
etc.) 

Come in and shut the door, 
For now it's snowing fast ; 
It snows, and will snow more and more ; 
Don't let it drift in on the floor. 
But you, you're all aglow; how can you be 
Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold. 

December. 

Nay, no closed doors for me. 

But open doors and open hearts and glee 

To welcome young and old. 

Dimmest and brightest month am I ; 
My short days end, my lengthening days begin ; 
What matters more or less sun in the sky, 

When all is sun within ? 

{He begins making a wreath as he sings.) 

Ivy and privet dark as night 

I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, 
And holly for a beauty and delight, 

And milky mistletoe. 



'^54 UNCLE NEI^S TALE, 

While high above them all I set 

Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and paie ; 
Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet 

May keep, so sweet and frail ; 

May keep each merry singing bird. 

Of all her happy birds that singing build : 

For I've a carol which some shepherds heard 
Once in a wintry fi^d. 

( While December concludes his song, all the other months troop 
in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The 
twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a 
stately measure as the Curtain falls}) 

— Christina G. Rossetti, 



MAB 29 19'^ 



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